You are Yuna Hollander. Your son is in primary school and tells you he wants to be a hockey player because he loves the ice. He’s talented and he has drive, even if he can be a little awkward and reserved. He is your only child, he is your world. You are committed to making this happen for him.
You are Yuna Hollander. Your son’s brand new boss should be talking about how skilled he is at his job, instead he talks about your son’s race. The way he looks like you. Your son tenses up by your shoulder. You cover the discomfort coming from the both of you, because this is the price for his dream and it is your fault.
You are Yuna Hollander. You know Shane has to work twice as hard to be half as visible as the white players even though he’s better than all of them (except maybe that Russian in Boston). You’re grateful that he has his father’s last name, it’s easier to market. You spend your lunch breaks making calls, answering emails, securing brand deals. You get home from work and clock into your second shift, building your son’s retirement plan. The body you made for him will only last him so long. You’re determined that he will live beyond it.
You are Yuna Hollander. Your son is at lunch and he’s not acting like himself. He’s tense like you’ve never seen him. He’s under so much pressure and you know you’ve contributed to that and it kills you. Maybe he needs to break from this regimen. You suggest he has a glass of wine with yourself and David. You’ve forgotten how important routines and rules are to your autistic son. You don’t know how to express that you think Shane is maybe in too deep with his hockey bubble, and that he perhaps should meet more normal people. Or at least, ones that aren’t hockey people. You don’t know how to say this because you’ve pushed him into this, now you’re changing the game and he hates that. You make a joke about a Swedish princess. Really? says David.
You are Yuna Hollander and your son has a girlfriend. This has never happened before. For a while you thought he might’ve been gay, but clearly you were wrong. He’s a hockey player. He’s the best in the world. He’s handsome, he’s talented, and he’s rich. Now there’s a movie star girlfriend. He tells you a day before the media frenzy begins. It feels so short. You used to feel closer to him. Something feels distant, and you hope that this can bring you back into his orbit again. You ask him to extend an invite for the summer to his girlfriend. You hope that this Rose Landry sees your son, past the jersey to the quirky, funny, honest man beneath.
You are Yuna Hollander and your son is bleeding on the ice.
You are Yuna Hollander and you visit your son in the hospital. He’s babbling away like he used to as a small child, before the other kids told him that the way he spoke and thought and acted was strange. It’s unashamed and giddy and you wish it wasn’t from the morphine. You haven’t seen him this unguarded in— you can’t remember. He keeps a tight hold on your hand even when he falls asleep. The nurse says the visit earlier from Ilya Rozanov tired him out.
You are Yuna Hollander and you’ve just witnessed hockey history. Scott Hunter has just come out in the most public way possible. No one will remember this cup for anything else. Your son has been texting his friend throughout the whole game. His phone starts ringing and he practically sprints out of the room to answer it. You look to your husband in shock. I can’t believe someone did it, you say. I can’t believe it was Scott Hunter, he says. You don’t know what Shane thinks. He stays on the phone for a long, long time.
You are Yuna Hollander and your husband has just told you. Why didn’t your son tell you? Why didn’t he tell you years ago? What have you done or said that he felt he couldn’t tell you? How did you not notice your son was living a lie? Did he love his girlfriend? Did you not notice that he didn’t love his girlfriend? You are a terrible mother. You are a terrible person. Your son is your world. Your son has not let you know who he is. Your heart is breaking.
You are Yuna Hollander and Ilya Rozanov is in your home, eating your food and drinking your husband’s vodka. He’s also been fucking your son for a decade and—
You are Yuna Hollander. Your son is gay. Your son has been in some kind of relationship for a decade. Your son has been afraid of the world, of the media, of the reaction. Your son has been afraid of you.
You are Yuna Hollander and your son is telling you that he tried so hard. You are going to throw up. You have never wanted him to be something that he isn’t. You have never wanted to stand in his way. All you have ever wanted is the best for him. All you have ever wanted is to help him achieve his dreams. You take him into your arms and you feel his heart beating against yours and you remember his heart used to be inside of you. You haven’t known him. But now you do. You feel like the luckiest woman on the planet.
You are Yuna Hollander and you will meet your son and his boyfriend for dinner at 5PM. And you will be texting first.
germansingergirl
pixelskylines
jbbartram-illu
vaporwave
theartofmadeline
janainaart
jacobvanloon
annaxmalina
areudirty
tangentwithtanner
dededos
