“Get the hell to bed, old man! Or I swear to God I’ll pick that thing up and ram it down your drunken throat! I’ll love pulling the trigger! And you—you’ll be fucking dead!” He drills the fingers of his left hand into Father’s chest.

Father’s arms slump to his sides and he crumples into a fetal position, then rolls onto his back. Lying there on the kitchen floor, he looks like a snow angel who can’t lift its wings. He begins to apologize—drunken I’m sorry words. We all sigh in relief. It’s over for now. Mother goes to him and wraps her arms around his waist. Through her salty tears and snot, she mumbles “I love yous” to the man who just tried to kill us all.

They head off together. A broken pair of lovers. A broken pair of parents. They quietly close the door to their bedroom behind themselves.

Oldest One looks at us all and laughs, “Well gang, just another Friday night around here! Let’s go back to bed. Last one up the stairs gets to smell all my farts for the next week!”

We race up the stairs behind him, laughing like school kids being released for the summer. Sister Two and I share a bed. Sister One is on the other side of the room in her own bed. We crawl under our DND sheets, the starched Department of National Defense garbage, and I try to think of something else, anything else. I can’t, and the full moon smiles down through our tiny bedroom window. I snuggle up to Sister Two, but she pushes me away. I see her shoulders shake with tears. I try again to cuddle her up, but she kicks me hard in the shin.

“Sister?”

“Go away. I hate everyone,” she mutters as she pulls the stiff sheets over her face and flattens her back against the mattress. The DND stamp covers her forehead.

“Come over here,” whispers Sister One. I go to her. She is the oldest of my sisters. The one who always makes me feel better. She cuddles me close and whispers in my ear, “Don’t ever think about this. Just close your eyes.”

I close them. I feel Sister One stroking my short black hair and focus on the rhythm of her hands patting my head to lull me to sleep.

I watch the expressions on the faces of my sons. I’m wondering if they believe her at all. I have let our family’s worst story float into their lives on the evening air. I have let the worst story settle into their memories. I can only trust that they don’t completely believe the auntie that left us for so long.

I look around at our small circle and say, “And that was the night that Auntie started to hate us all. Well, on that happy note, I’m going to bed!” There’s been too much wine. Too much emotion. Too much talking about things that we cannot change. It’s useless to add anything more. I glare at Sister as I walk past her. How stupid of me to have expected any sort of change.