and the thing is. like. ilya carries his pain about his mother for so long and so quietly. he never complains. he wires money home. his brother calls him slurs, considers him nothing more than a bloodbank of money, siphoning siphoning siphoning. he says i promise to work very hard for you, papa, for this american team. i promise to win. for you, mama. ilya and irina, the weight of a household on their shoulders. you must stand tall, ilya, just like her. carry it with grace. do not let the household crumble. fill the emptiness with something else— girls, sex, money, alcohol, shane — no, not shane. shane is separate. shane isn’t allowed to see the hole in your chest, the festering wound. it’s okay, tuck it away like mama’s cross beneath your shirt. you’re good at keeping things hidden. deflect and divert. back straight, ilya, eyes up, ignore the blood pooling, ignore the blackened flesh. you can play with missing teeth, you can play with bruised ribs, you can weather anything. focus, this is nothing. grit your teeth and bear it. when you tell shane about mama, make sure he does not think she was weak. she was funny and beautiful, and papa was so hard on her. make sure he knows that first. who cares that you’re still bleeding, ilya, quit slouching, lazy boy — you’re beginning to look just like her.
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