Current New Yorker story seems to have missed an opportunity

China-nor English-language writer Yiyun Li has a mostly successful story , When We Were Happy We Had Other Names (she is known for her unusual titles), in current New Yorker.
, mostly successful because she does a fine job esp in the opening pp in capturing the suffering and pathos and sense of isolation and abandonment of a couple that is enduring the sorrow and even guilt following the suicide of a seemingly untroubled teenage son. Especially powerful are the passages of dawn dialogue betweeen the man and woman. That said, it's somewhat surprising that she does not attempt to unravel the mystery of the suicide nor does she give us any significant back story on the young man. Rather, the woman - the protagonist of this story - to ease her suffering begins a project of recollecting her memories of everyone she knew who died. In her metaphor, recollecting death is like pulling straws from a haystack - each straw dislodges many other (memories). I wish however that her recollected memories were more profound or unusual or moving, but moments has the force of the death of her son; they do , however, lead her to think about those she has known from childhood in china and to remember her beloved grandfathers who died at 102 - but somehow I think she missed an opportunity to tell us more about the protagonist's life through her memories of the dead - I don't feel I knew much more about her, or her son, at the end than I did halfway through this story.