What makes a family

When my mother died, I had my first proper conversation with my father. That is how little communication I had with my father for more than 30 years.
I have again been living in the same building as my father for the last five months. My father, who has never cooked and does not have a car licence, buys food for me every day without asking, from a shop in a quiet residential area in the countryside, probably within walking distance. This is the only communication my father throws at me. As it happens, I also eat this lunch every day, and what my father throws at me has become my flesh and blood.
We are not a family, but we act like one in the same building.