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Ilya found that most days were good now. Five years after marrying Shane Hollander, the love of his life, he found that his days were brighter and his depressive episodes happened less frequently.
He played with a team he loved, who had become like family to him. He had brought home the Stanley Cup three times now, twice with Ottawa, twice with his husband. His relationship with Shane had never been stronger, and they had even started to fill out their paperwork for the adoption process as they started to discuss retirement.
He had family. He had friends. He was loved.
So it really threw him off-kilter when he picked up his held mail from the post office after spending the summer at the cottage with Shane to find an envelope with a blend of English and Cyrillic.
Ilya clutched the letter tightly, his breath halting as he found an address he had almost forgotten. He shoved the envelope into his jacket pocket before shakily smiling at the attendant, quickly shoving the rest of the stack into his reusable bag before turning on his heels and heading for his Mercedes.
He could feel the letter burning a hole in his pocket as his left leg bounced, weaving his way through the streets of Ottawa towards the home he had built with Shane. The pads of his thumb and pointer finger rubbed together atop his knee before he leaned forward and turned up the radio, trying to drown out his thoughts with Bad Bunny. Ten agonizing minutes later, he pulled into the driveway, with only the mail in his bag, foregoing the remainder of the errands he had intended to run.
The short walk up the driveway felt like a death march, lightened only by Anya’s bark at his arrival. He leaned down, brushing her fur slightly before straightening back up and heading to the kitchen, where he last remembered Shane preparing lunch for himself.
His husband was sitting on a stool at the counter, eyes glancing over an email as he took a bite of his salad. Shane’s dark eyes glanced towards the new presence in the room, widening in surprise when they landed on Ilya.
“Hey, you’re back way sooner than I thought you’d be,” noted Shane, straightening up on the stool. He quickly took note of the nearly empty reusable bag in Ilya’s hand before continuing, “Did something happen? It looks like you didn’t even make it to the store.”
Ilya shook his head. “I didn’t. I picked up the mail.”
“Okay. Was there something important?”
Another shake of Ilya’s head had Shane furrowing his brow. Ilya spoke, “Mostly bills and spam. Credit card offers. The usual.”
“Okay. Why didn’t you go grocery shopping then? Did you want me to come with you after all?”
Ilya remained silent as he rounded the counter, stepping into Shane’s space enough that he could smell the fresh soap lingering on his skin from his post-workout shower. He reached into his pocket, hands burning against the letter, only to place it on Shane’s keyboard. Shane was quick to grab it, confusion clear by the downturn of his lips. He looked over it, his eyes moving between the letter and Ilya.
“Who’s it from?”
Ilya swallowed. “Andrei. My brother.”
Shane nodded slowly, still clearly unsure of the situation. “I didn’t know he knew our address.”
“Me neither.”
A beat passed between the husbands. “Have you read it yet?” Ilya just shook his head. “Do you want to?” Another moment passed. Shane continued, “I can read it for you if you’d like. Is that why you came home first?”
“I think so. And I think…I think I would like that actually.” Ilya could feel the slight tremble in his hand, so he distracted himself by turning to the fridge to grab a can of Coke. When he finally turned to face Shane again, this time with the can cracked, Shane was slowly ripping the seam of the envelope.
Ilya watched as his husband peeked inside the envelope, clearly hesitant, before he made an assured sound and emptied its contents. Behind a fresh, stark-white piece of paper also fell a slightly yellowed, more wrinkled piece of lined paper, folded into a square.
He watched as Shane unfolded the new letter, clearly written by his brother if the handwriting was anything to go by. He continued to observe the way Shane’s eyes flew over the Cyrillic alphabet scrawled over the page in jagged lines, much like Ilya remembers Andrei’s essays in secondary school. He felt something similar to anxiety build in his chest.
“Can you—I mean, do you know what it says?” While Shane had worked tirelessly, with and without Ilya, to learn as much Russian as he could, he knew that it took time to learn a language as complicated as Russian, even for the great Shane Hollander. His husband’s silence made his anxiety tick in a way that told him Shane did understand at least a little bit of it.
Eventually, Shane lowered the letter, watching Ilya carefully. “Baby, can I ask you a question about your mom?”
“Mama?” Shane hummed affirmatively. “Okay. Of course.”
Irina Rozanova was a common topic of conversation for Ilya now. He had worked hard in therapy not to let himself drown in his grief. He had processed the nightmares and horrible memories with the help of EMDR and medication. While he still saw Galina every other month, Ilya was typically able to process things with the help of Shane regularly. She was still the dedication and inspiration behind The Irina Foundation, but now he looked back at his mother with mostly positive memories. It no longer pulled him into a several-day spiral when she came up.
Something told Ilya he was going to have to schedule an earlier appointment with Galina after today.
Shane continued, “Did she…when she.” Shane swallowed, which only made Ilya more anxious. “I’m sorry to ask, but did she leave…a note?”
Ilya tilted his head, confused. “Like, did she ever write me a letter? I was only a child when she died. We never exchanged letters, Shane.”
“I meant,” started Shane, who took in a deep breath, clearly worried to finish his sentence. “I meant when she died. Did she leave any letters? Any final words?”
Something dark twisted deep inside of Ilya, almost like feelings of anger that he rarely felt towards his mother. He loved his mother, but after many chats with Galina, he had processed that he was allowed to feel anger and sadness towards feeling left behind by her. When he did think of times he was angry at his mother, it was these ones: She didn’t leave behind anything. No letter or signs of goodbye. Ilya just returned home to her in bed, cold, appearing as if she was sleeping. He never knew if she regretted it or if she felt sorry that Ilya was probably going to be the one to find her.
“No.” His response was short, but Shane didn’t bristle at the tone, his eyes softening in understanding.
Shane continued, “I could be mistranslating, so you should probably read it, but I think Andrei is saying that she did.”
Ilya felt like he had been doused in ice-cold water, so he quickly leaned against Shane’s back, hooking his chin on his shoulder, and he read the messy words. Shakily, he reached for the white paper, pulling it closer to his face to make sure he was reading it correctly.
“…I wish things would’ve been different, sometimes. Don’t you?
Anyway, Papa always told me to never speak of this again, but Papa has been dead ten years now. I do not think he will beat me if I give this to you. Papa found this after her body had been taken away, and I took it from him before he could burn it, much like you took Mama’s necklace. I was mad when I first read it, that she mostly spoke to you. I realize now why she did. I think I knew it then too. I think it would mean more to you than it does to me. I am sorry you had to find her.
I am sorry I was a bad brother.
I hope you’re happy with your husband.
Andrei”
Tears stained the letter as they dripped unceremoniously from his cheeks. He felt like he was suffocating, like the chain wrapped around his neck was holding a 25kg weight that was pulling him down.
“Is that what it says?”
Shane’s voice shocked him from his spiral as he whipped his head to stare at the other man. He nodded, clearing his throat before speaking, “I think so, maybe. I don’t know.” He swallowed. “He said he was sorry, too, about being bad brother and about me finding her. He called you my husband.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Ilya set the letter on the counter, eyes wandering to the folded lined paper still sitting on Shane’s keyboard. It was softened the way paper only does after years and years of sitting: 23 years.
“Ilya, maybe we should sit down on the couch,” suggested Shane, placing one of his hands over Ilya’s own. Ilya allowed Shane to guide him to the living room, where he proceeded to just stare at the offending letter for 10 minutes. Eventually, Shane broke the silence again, “Do you want me to go?”
“No!” The desperation even surprised Ilya. He cleared his throat again, “I mean, no. Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. I just…I don’t want you leaving, no. Please.” His tone had softened towards the end of his request. He swallowed. “I’m afraid.”
“Of what it says?” Ilya nodded. “Okay, tell me why. Let’s rationalize it together.”
Ilya breathed. Breathed in again. The clock ticked on the bookshelf as the seconds passed.
He started, “I worked hard with Galina to process that I am allowed to be angry at Mama for leaving me with no letters. I am scared that I will feel guilty because she did. After all these years, she did leave us something, and my horrible, horrible papa kept it from me. I am scared that I will be angry at a dead man. I am scared that my opinions of Andrei are changing.” Ilya took in a sharp breath, tears falling quickly again. “I am scared that letter will tell me what I have always thought: That I was not good enough for Mama to stay. That what Papa used to say was right: She left because I was too much.”
Shane placed a gentle hand on Ilya’s forearm, rubbing it kindly as he replied, “Those are all very valid reasons to be scared, Ilya. You are still allowed to feel what you do towards your mama. You can be angry at people and still love them. And you are allowed to be angry at your father, even if he is dead.” Shane signed. “Even if your feelings towards Andrei are changing, there’s nothing wrong with that. He also lost his mother young, and he was raised by your father. It doesn’t make it right how he treated you horribly all those years, and you don’t have to do anything about your new opinions, but you’re allowed to have them.”
Ilya leaned into Shane, resting his head atop Shane’s shoulder and breathing in his scent. After ten seconds passed, Ilya asked, “You have nothing to say about last part of my statement?”
Shane chuckled, almost sourly, “Grigory Rozanov was wrong about a lot of things when it came to you, and he was definitely wrong about you being too much. As for what the letter says, we won’t know until we read it.”
The blond’s eyes remained closed, focusing on the soothing rub of Shane’s hand going up and down. Finally, he spoke, “Okay. I am ready.” He sat up, grabbing the softened edges and sat facing Shane, who watched on with anticipation. Anya had jumped up on the couch between them, watching them curiously, and Shane didn’t even try to make her get off the furniture when she cuddled into Ilya’s lap.
Ilya slowly unfolded the creased edges, hot tears burning behind his eyes when he saw Irina’s handwriting for the first time in over two decades. It was impossible to swallow his emotions, outlining the words—his name—with the tips of his fingers.
“My sweet boys,
I love you so dearly. I hope you know that I tried really hard to keep waking up. Sometimes life is just so dark, and it is really hard for me to see a way out of the darkness after all these years.
I need you to know that this was not your fault. I have been this way for a long time, since a girl, and it just has not gotten better. You boys are the only thing that kept me going on the worst days, and made me smile on the best days. I do not want you to ever believe I did not love you. I know it is not fair for me to ask this of either of you, but I just need you to believe me.
Dyusha,
Please watch out for your brother. Please do not let Grigory turn him into another version of him. Please do not let your Papa turn you into him. I know you party. I know you drink. But you are strong and you are your own person. I love you. Do not be afraid to be soft and to let others in.
Ilyushenka,
You will go far. You are so talented. I am always looking over you, watching you, proud. I hope you pursue what makes you happy always. I love the soft side of you—you remind me of me, and I hope you never lose that, sunshine. I worry you carry a part of me, but I know that with your smile you will bring others to you that can get you through the darkest days. You have such a big heart, and care so deeply, so be sure to spread that love and also accept it in return. I hope you leave Russia someday. There are so many beautiful things about Russia, like the pond I taught you to skate on, and the flowers in park in the summer. But I hope you leave Russia so you do not feel afraid to love others. I do not know if you know it yet, but I know that your heart is too big not to love more than just girls. I know you will find a wife or husband who loves you for you, so do not bother changing. I will never be mad if you leave and do not come back. I am so proud of you, always. Go on, my sunshine.
Love,
Mama.”
“Oh,” murmured Ilya, breath caught in his throat.
Shane had stayed silent, worrying his eyes over Ilya’s expression as he read. “Hmm?”
Ilya felt the ghost of a wet smile on his face. “She knew.” When Shane questioned further, Ilya continued, “She knew I liked both. Mama—she said that she knew I would find a wife or husband because my heart was too big to stop at girls.”
That brought a smile to Shane’s face, softening the concern that was there. “Of course, she did. She is your mother. She knows you.”
Ilya chanced a look at Shane, who seemed to have wetness along his waterline as well, before reading the words in front of him again. “She said she hoped I would leave Russia someday, and that—“ He couldn’t push the words past the sob. “Sorry, she—she said she would not be mad if I left Russia and never returned, even though she knew she would always be there. She’s not mad at me.”
Something finally broke in Ilya as he placed the letter down and dropped his face into his arms. The sobs that wracked his body were heavy as he released them. Shane grappled with him, arms tight around Ilya’s shoulders as they shook. The pain of his mother’s last words bled through every pore and crevice of his body.
Eventually, the cries dwindled to sniffles. Ilya’s cheeks were red and raw, the same as his eyes, and Shane remained a steady presence as always.
Hearing his own voice hurt his ears as he said, “Andrei said he kept it from me because he felt Mama wrote the letter to me more than him. He said he knew our father would burn it, so he stole it from him.” A beat passed. “He is not a good person, but he deserved Mama too and a brother. Maybe I was not there enough for him.”
“Ilya, baby,” but Shane followed it with a sigh. “You provided for him. You gave him money.”
“He was there when our father died. He took care of him. I was not there.”
“Because you had a job that paid the bills.”
Ilya huffed, biting his cheek. “He said he wished things could have been different. I wish so too.”
Shane nodded. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to argue. I just…I love you so much. But you are right, Andrei was also just a kid. He deserved more softness, but it wasn’t your responsibility to make him that way, and he made his own choices.”
“Yeah,” agreed Ilya, swallowing roughly. “I still came out this way, hm?” It was his first smile since he got the letter that he aimed towards Shane, who returned with a soft grin.
“You did. And I love you this way,” replied Shane, pressing a kiss to Ilya’s cheek. He tapped his husband’s knee, standing and stretching out his hand towards Ilya. “Come on, let’s order pizza, hm?”
Ilya tilted his head as he said, “But it is preseason.”
“We’ll call it a special occasion,” smiled Shane, shaking his hand to bring attention back to it. Ilya allowed his hand to be enveloped in the warmth of Shane’s, who dragged him to the kitchen to grab the folder of takeout menus.
The letters stayed on the coffee table in the living room as Anya bounded around the house happily. For the first time in 20 years, Ilya felt a darkness seep away and out of his brain, allowing a little more light in.