When my father died, his brother drove up to Illinois from Kentucky for the funeral. Theirs was not a close family, and we hadn’t seen Uncle Jack and his crew for at least fifteen years. Even so, my sister and I appreciated the gesture and were happy to see them. At the post-funeral gathering, however, I was reminded why I had not sweated the fifteen years that preceded the funeral.

Seated between my mother (by then, long-divorced from my father and twice remarried), my Aunt Dixie (Jack’s wife), and across from my cousin Kyle, I slowly sipped my gin and…