My sons share a past with her too, but none of us speak of it. None of us ask about her son, my nephew, my sons’ cousin. The afternoon drifts past us and different camp people come along out of curiosity and introduce themselves. Everyone shakes hands with everyone. In total, there are fewer than twenty people out here in the absolute middle of nowhere. Eventually, the smell of barbeques fills the air. Lance cooks up steaks and potatoes for us. Something her boy, Matt, would never have done.

After our supper, Sister and I take our full bellies to the camp communal tipi while my sons put out the fire at the trailer. We sit with a foreign student who is visiting the camp for the summer. He talks about his home in Spain and we ask him different questions about his family. We never speak about our own but ply this young guy with a million different questions about his mom and dad and his sisters. He misses them and is happy to tell us every detail.

Sister and I are avoiding each other. Hearing about a foreign family who are far away from us makes us believe that families can get along and be strong. Makes us believe that there is a reason to return to one another. Makes us believe that this visit may be a new beginning, where old memories and fights will never appear. Makes us believe that we can be like a family in Spain.

The other campers get up to go to bed just as Tom and Lance amble into the tipi. They’ve brought more wine and fill up our glasses again. I can feel the tiredness that comes with the release of emotion set in. I can feel the wine making me ask myself if any of this is real.

“Ah, Sila,” Sister says as Tom and Lance settle into their chairs, “when are you going to stop raising your sons in a fairyland? They’re adults now and it’s time for them to know what is really what.” She turns to them. “Now boys, we all know your mom is busy trying to bring the Eskimo back into all of us, but she never has told you the one true story.”

She starts to tell the one story I never talk about. It’s Friday night and the wine helps me hear our father howl, “Get them!”

I can hear Mother pause.

“Now!” Father commands.

Small steps scurry up the stairs and we are pulled from beneath our sheets. No words are spoken. No directions are given. Silently and slowly we march down the stairs in chronological order in our wrinkled pyjamas. In step.

He is there waiting, his .303 military issue slung across his belly, his military boots squeaking on the polished floor. Waiting for us. Our firing squad of one.