Somewhere, in some biography of him that I read a long time ago, the American writer Nathaniel Hawthorne's family was described pretty much as follows: everyone had their own room, everyone stayed in their own room, and everyone had their meals delivered to their room on a tray left outside the door. I can conceive of that, though my own family ate together at dinner time, discussing solely and only purely intellectual topics from my father's daily reading: Reinhold Niebuhr, Bertrand Russell, Sigmund Freud, Jean-Paul Sartre, Charles Sanders Peirce, Baruch Spinoza, Immanuel Kant, etc., etc. Nothing even slightly personal. I never even knew what my father did running his company during the day. Not the slightest detail. Nor were any of us asked about what had happened in school or what we had learned that day. My parents, both mom and dad, were kind of proud (if that's possible) not to be people who reflected on themselves, not to be among those who thought (critically or not) about their own feelings or personalities. In the many years since then I've come to suspect that this may well be unusual. And for all I know it may have something to do with not being lonely. Take care!