The blood isn't thick.

Two years ago my cousin died.
My family, including his mother and father found out about it last September. Which they wouldn't even had discovered had my other Aunt not been researching into any family unclaimed Superannuation or something along those lines.
Ross's name had popped up; further investigation told how he was not only deceased, but deceased for two years and a coroner's report suspected it was suicide. He was 35 years old.
Ten years before he along with his sister had packed up and walked away from their parents and completely disconnected themselves from every relation they had (not that they had any reason to contact any of us anyway- I have never even met them) over some 'trivial argument'- My Old Man said.
When Ross died, even his sister didn't bother contacting their parents. She still hasn't.
Upon discovering this, nobody in my family shed a single tear. Nobody felt sad. My dad told me about it in the most casual, 'Oh by the way' note.
It was an unimportant family affair (only by blood), that stirred nothing but feelings of complete indifference in us.
He was my cousin, and he died two years ago, probably leaving no bigger ripples in the world than when he first entered it.
Today sitting at the kitchen table I was looking out the window, watching a fly slowly crawling over the clear surface, occasionally hopping through the air to a different spot. I wondered if his final weeks before his final decision had been slow and thoughtful like this. Whether he'd just sat still taking in these tiny things and thinking how this was life......asking whether he thought it could possibly change and get better soon? How had he wanted life to turn out? Were these tiny little moments so dissatisfying he just eventually decided to give up?
No, it was bigger than that. I was just searching for answers, only caring because he was technically my cousin.... yet I felt nothing but slight curiosity.
What if my brother were to walk out the door tomorrow and i never saw him again, than 10 years later I hear he had died?
Ten years is a long time. What I feel for him now flirts with hate....alot. Ten years is long enough to stop caring, move on, forget.......than one day I hear of his death. Would I calmly listen to the news, nodd, feel shocked, but feel no other emotion?
I think I already know the answer, yet don't feel shocked or even sad over it.
Blood isn't as thick as we've been led to believe.