Archive of Our Own

Life is short, and the world is at least half terrible, and for every kind stranger, there is one who would break you, though I keep this from my children. I am trying to sell them the world. Any decent realtor, walking you through a real shithole, chirps on about good bones—

[a voice message sent May 10th, 1991, received by a Panasonic answering machine]

David: Hey, Mom. The baby has been ejected.

Yuna: David, no, that’s—no. Give me that. Hey, Mrs. Holl—

David: She’s your mom too, you know—

Yuna: —just letting you know that we have a baby! Seven pounds and seven ounces, ten fingers and ten toes. His name is Shane, and he’s excited to meet you… at some point. When we get out of the hospital. We love you, we hope to see you soon, and—

David: —and bring peach cobbler when you visit!

Yuna: … and bring peach cobbler when you visit. Bye.

[on the back of a receipt for a TV, May 10, 1992]

David, don’t forget to bring Shane for his shots today. I couldn’t get off work. Let’s just go out for dinner. 

If he gets fussy, there’s milk in the freezer. Heat it up before you give it to him, but make sure it’s not too hot. Three drops on the inside of your wrist. I suppose I don’t need to tell you that if it makes you jump, then it’s too hot for him. Don’t overfeed him though, because then he’s gonna puke all over you after the drive to the health center. Please, please, do NOT forget to burp him. Love you. Say Happy Birthday to our baby boy for me.

[on the back of a postcard from Toronto, showing the CN Tower, May 9, 1993]

Greetings from the Hollanders!

Hello, family! We wish you a warm spring wherever this card may find you. It’ll be Shane’s first time celebrating his birthday outside of Ottawa. Our baby boy, growing bigger everyday. Please enjoy the photos that come with the card; sorry he isn’t looking in some of them. We did the best we could.

Love always,

Yuna, David, and Shane

[on a torn, bottom half of a legal pad, May 8, 1994]

David. I love you, and you know this. Please stop leaving your markers around where Shane can reach them. I don’t think I have to remind you that our son is a walking, running menace who will grab anything he can reach. Please. It took me ages to scrub his face clean. If you still see faint, black marks, well, you have no one to blame but yourself.

PLEASE DO NOT LEAVE YOUR MARKERS! Or I will leave you. Kidding. But, really, stop leaving those things around. The ink might be toxic anyway. We don’t need chemicals leaching inside our son’s mouth.

[a voice message sent May 14, 1995, received by a TAM-1000]

Yuna: Hey, Mags! Just wanted to say thank you for the drum set you got Shane for his birthday. Really. So thoughtful. So generous. So unbelievably loud. I’m leaving this message from inside my own home and I can’t hear myself think. I know you can hear him in the background. It’s been four days of this. David’s pretending to take a walk for his health, but you and I both know he doesn’t care for his health. Really, he just wants to escape Shane. Anyway, yeah, he loves it, which unfortunately means you’ve made yourself his favorite person alive. I hope you’re happy with what you’ve done. Call me back when you can, love you.

[a letter written on an A4 bond paper, left behind at the cemetery, dated May 12, 1996]

Dear Mama,

How are things up there? Hope you and Papa are doing well.

I have been having these weird dreams lately. I dream we are back in Sendai again. That little creek by the woods behind our house. I dream that I fall into the creek; it’s always deeper, in my dreams. And a big fish swallows me whole, and then I wake up crying. I don’t know what it means.

You know, I still catch myself wondering what heaven looks like for you. Not that we ever talked about things like that, but I supposed that’s part of it. Somewhere warm, perhaps? Like our old house, with music playing softly in the kitchen and flowers growing right outside the window. 

Shane turned five two days ago. I know, right? Time flies so fast. It’s unbelievable, sometimes. You only ever knew Shane as this tiny thing who cried every night and refused to nap unless someone held him. Now he’s a big boy who likes to think he can do everything without his Mom. But his eyes are still like a baby’s, though. So big. He likes to use them against me at bedtime, begging me for ten more minutes of reading. Sometimes, in the right light, I think you have the exact same eyes. That only makes me miss you more.

And that's really it. I miss you. Every single day, I miss you. We never really celebrated it, but this is the first time I’m spending Mother’s Day without you. And I miss you so much. All I want to do is to sit at your kitchen table again while you drink your tea. Jasmine in the warm spring air. The sunlight on the floor while the windchimes rung. I hope I have made you proud. I hope you keep watching over me. Over Shane.

Always, your daughter, Yuna.

[on the back of a grocery receipt, May 11, 1997]

Shane, this is mom. Don’t forget to feed Lady before dinner and please, please stop giving her pieces of your waffles when you think Dad and I aren’t looking. I can tell because she follows you around like you’re her little princeling. Kelly would be mad if you got her dog fat in the five days she's left with us. There’s macaroni in the fridge. Dad and I will be home by six. I love you bigger than the moon and all the planets and stars after it. Be good for Jennifer. 

[from a home video recording, May 10, 1998]

Yuna: Hi, Shane!

Shane: Hi, maman.

Yuna: What are we doing today, Shane?

Shane: Skating!

Yuna: And who got you the skates, Shane?

Shane: You, maman!

David: It really is cute that he calls you that.

Yuna: Well, let’s hope it doesn’t stick.

David: It’s cute!

Yuna: I don’t like being called maman, ugh, I—

Shane: Maman, look!

Yuna: Oh, you’re skating, good job, Shane!

Shane: I did a good job?

Yuna: Yes you did. High-five!

Shane: Love you, maman.

Yuna: I love you too, Shane. You’re my favorite boy ever.

David: Hey!

Yuna: Shane appreciates me. Unlike you, who keeps forgetting to take out the trash when—

[Shane skates over, there’s a wobble as he pauses in front of David and Yuna. Instinctively, Yuna’s arm reaches out to steady her son. The camera shakes.]

Shane: I ‘ppreciate you, maman.

Yuna: Of course you do, my darling.

Shane: Mhm. Because you make grilled cheese gooder than Dad.

David: “Gooder” isn’t a word, bud.

Shane: It should be.

[Shane is pouting now. Off the camera, Yuna laughs.]

Yuna: I agree with him, actually. Okay, Shane, let’s show the camera your new skates, okay?

Shane: Ah! Wait, wait, maman—

[Loud clatter as the camera suddenly dips downward, catching only the snow and the toes of Yuna’s boots as Shane and David giggle somewhere off-screen.]

Yuna: Hey! Be careful!

Shane: Oops! Désolé, maman!

Yuna: It’s alright, it’s—oh, great, it’s still recording. Here.

[The camera pans over to David’s face. He reaches his hand out to grab the camera. He turns it, so it’s now showing Yuna and Shane on the ice, both in skates.]

David: Our future hockey superstar. There he is.

[The camera zooms in on Shane, grinning with his two front teeth missing. His cheeks are pink from the cold, his wool hat slipping halfway over one eye. He points to one skate.]

Shane: Dad, look. They’re blue because maman says blue looks bestest on me.

Yuna: Because it does, baby. It really does.

[on a torn notepad, May 9, 1999]

Buy THESE. Nothing else:

• Milk (2%)
• Eggs, two trays please. Your parents are coming over for the weekend.
• Bread — NOT STORE BRAND. Shane will notice. I do not want to deal with cranky Shane in the morning before school.
• Kraft Singles, 3 packs.
• Campbell’s tomato soup, 2 cans.
• Goldfish crackers — cheddar only
• Yogurt tubes for Shane
• Yogurt for ME
• Strawberries if they look decent
• Bananas
• Honey nut Cheerios
• Chicken breasts
• Ground beef, 3 pounds
• Prego pasta sauce, mushroom
• Coffee. Get the good one, please. You buy the cheap tin and then I’m gonna pretend not to notice the difference, but you and I both know I know.
• Diet coke
• Ginger ale
• Peas
• Ketchup. Heinz only.

REMINDERS: Shane also needs glue sticks so stop by the crafts store. And pick up our dry cleaning. Love you. Please don’t come home with anything else that is NOT on the list.

[on the back of a grocery receipt, May 14, 2000]

David, don’t forget that Shane has hockey practice at 2 later in the afternoon. I’ll try and meet you at the rink, but if I can’t, I’ll just call. Then we can all meet at Lou’s. Please do not let Shane wear his lucky socks again unless they’ve been washed first. I’m serious. He will cry, and I will kill you. Tell Sarah at the practice, if I’m not there, that I’m waiting on her cookies. I want two boxes!!! And call your mother back. Love you.

[on the back of a postcard with the photo of Niagara Falls, May 13, 2001]

Greetings from the Hollanders!

Hello from our family! We’re spending the weekend at Niagara Falls and have decided that no photograph in the universe can properly capture how enormous and beautiful the water is. And so we have to settle for this postcard instead. Shane says it looks like the ocean. I don’t know where he got that from when he’s never seen a real one. He’s been running from railing to railing in his little blue poncho asking his father one thousand questions a minute about where the water is coming from and why there’s so many. David bought fudge from a billion different shops. You’re all free to have some when we return. 

Love always,

Yuna, David, and Shane

[on a sticky note stuck on the fridge, May 12, 2002]

Shane,

How many times do I have to tell you NOT to leave your hockey gear in the hallway? I nearly died this morning tripping over your stick on my way to make coffee. If I break my neck because of your stuff, I will haunt you forever. And I will kill you too, and take you with me.

I left money on the counter for lunch. When your dad and I get back, we’re heading to your aunt’s for dinner. Don’t forget to do your homework. I WILL check before we leave.

Love always, Mom.

P.S. The leftover brownies are NOT all for you. Save some for your father. I counted them. Don’t try me.

[on the back of a photograph of Shane, May 11, 2003]

Shane,

I am writing this with tears in my eyes. I know, your mom is so embarrassingly sentimental. Remember when you were a baby and you called me maman? You’re still my baby, of course, but now you’re all grown up. 

I will look at this picture forever. It’s true. You and that trophy. It’s my favorite photo from last week. Your smile in it is so wide it doesn’t even look like it will fit in your face.

You won’t know this, but that game… Oh, Shane. I kept holding my breath every time you went near the puck. I was so scared! But you won, of course. Just like that. You really are meant for this. I will do everything I can to make this dream happen for you, if this is really what you want.

I am so, so proud of you. Sometimes, I don’t even have the words for how proud I am. I’ve been proud of you since the moment you came out of me, but this moment, I think, was the first time I saw you belong to something entirely your own. You’ve made it really good here, Shane. Keep going. I will always be here.

Love always,

Maman.

[a voice message sent May 9, 2004, received by an AT&T answering machine]

Yuna: Hi, Tina, it’s Yuna. I’m sorry, it’s Mother’s Day, I know you’re probably busy, but can you tell David to meet us at the hospital? I’m on my way there with Shane right now. It’s nothing too serious. He’s okay, I think. He’s been feeling dizzy since this morning and he finally told me it was getting worse, so I’m taking him in just to be safe. I—no, Shane, stop trying to remove the blank—and I know where the hospital is, I don’t need—okay, you know what, I’ve got it. Bye, Tina. Please tell David. Thank you, bye bye.

[a series of texts between Yuna and David, May 8, 2005]

David: We’re on the way. 

David: Head’s up, Shane is acting weird.

Yuna: How weird? He’s always weird.

David: Nervous weird. He asked me if his hair looked okay three times before we left for practice earlier.

Yuna: Well, he asks me that too.

David: I think Shane has a crush

Yuna: On what? The puck?

David: Haha.

David: Like, a girl.

Yuna: I really don’t think that’s the case.

David: Sure, but I’ve seen this kind of movement before.

David: It’s how I was when I had a crush on you.

Yuna: Haha.

Yuna: He’s 14, David.

Yuna: Well, in two days he’ll be 14.

David: I know. I’m just saying.

Yuna: Okay, well, in any case, don’t tease him. It’s Mother’s Day today and I do NOT want to deal with Shane freaking out again.

David: Got it.

Yuna: And tell him I love him.

David: Okay. Love you too, by the way. Pretend I’m rolling my eyes.

Yuna: Love you too. Pretend I’m rolling my eyes back at you. Drive safe.

David: ;)

[from a home video recording, May 14, 2006]

Yuna: Okay, Shane Hollander, interview time.

Shane: Really, Mom?

Yuna: Oh, humor me, will you?

Shane: I don’t think I agreed to an interview.

[Off the camera, David laughs. The camera pans to him, picking a sandwich apart. He reaches his hand out and pushes the camera to point back at Shane, who is scratching his cheek.]

Yuna: You’re fifteen now. A few more years and you won’t be able to refuse interviews anymore. This is good practice, come on!

Shane: Depends. What’s the interview about?

Yuna: How is being fifteen?

[Shane groans. Off-camera, David laughs again, much louder this time. Yuna clicks her tongue, shushing him.]

Shane: Really?

Yuna: Really.

Shane: Well, it feels exactly the same as fourteen.

Yuna: Boring.

Shane: I don’t know! Nothing has changed in the five days that I’ve been fourteen!

Yuna: Boring, boring Shane. 

David: Aw, Yuna, come on. Stop making fun of him.

Yuna: I’m not! But, for the record, I think fifteen looks good on my baby boy.

[From behind the camera, Yuna’s hand extends. Her fingers come to a rest on top of Shane’s freckled cheek, nails painted a beautiful red. She pats it, once, then pinches it. Shane frowns immediately, batting her hand away.]

Shane: Ugh—Mom!

Yuna: Aw, my handsome baby.

Shane: Well, you’re obligated to say that. You’re my mom.

Yuna: No I’m not. I call your Dad ugly all the time and he’s my husband.

[Shane laughs. David protests at the insult. The camera pans to him again. He reaches out, takes it from Yuna. He takes a video of the view for a while, zooming in on the lake and the other picnic-goers. He’s humming some song, slightly off-key. Then, he brings the focus back to Shane and Yuna. Shane is leaning back, on his elbows. Yuna is cross-legged beside him.]

Shane: Okay, is the interview over now?

Yuna: Yes—wait, no! One last question. Shane, what do you have to say to me today?

Shane: Nothing… Beyond Happy Mother’s Day?

[Yuna looks towards the camera, face blank. The camera shakes from David’s laughter.]

Yuna: What a sweet boy we raised.

Shane: I d—what’s that supposed to mean?

[on a piece of paper, the back of which has a printed table for currency exchange, May 13, 2007]

David. Shane is doing that moody teenager thing again where he pretends he doesn’t need anything from us, while also needing everything from us. Please be extra patient with him later, okay? He’s been quiet since yesterday’s practice, and he snapped at me earlier for some reason. I can’t tell if it’s just exhaustion or if something else is bothering him. It’s so hard to get a read on this boy nowadays. I left breakfast in the microwave. We’ll meet you at the Tim’s off Bakers’. Love you. 

[on the back of an abandoned journal, May 11, 2008]

Dear Mama,

I wasn’t going to write today. I really wasn’t. I’ve been trying to keep busy, and I really, really am busy. I have to drive in a few days for Shane’s training camp in Montreal, and I still haven’t booked the hotel we’ll be staying at. Busy, busy.

But then I heard our favorite song earlier. Remember, Mama? Dream, dream, dream, when I feel blue—Everly Brothers, yes. David left the radio on and just as I was about to turn it off, that song started playing. And then I was crying, and now here I am, wasting ink on a letter no one’s ever gonna read but me.

Shane turned seventeen yesterday. Seventeen years. I keep saying it out loud and it all feels incomprehensible to me. He’s taller than me now. I have to look up at him whenever I want to tell him something. He’s a good boy. Really good. On the quieter side, but we’ve always been a quiet sort, haven't we? He’s changed so much, but he’s also still the same boy. He still leaves his hockey gear in the hall. He still forgets to turn the light back off when he goes downstairs for water in the middle of the night. 

Seventeen years. When I was seventeen, Papa got sick. Two years after that, he was gone. I don’t know why I’m bringing this up. I guess I’m just scared. I don’t know what I’m doing. Seventeen years of being a mom and I still don’t know what to do—with myself and with Shane. I used to believe I would understand him more clearly as he got older, that the answers would just arrive with time. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? You always seemed to know me so well, the more that time passed.

I wish you were here. I wish I could sit across from you and ask how you did it. I wish I could hug you and be held again. I want to be your little girl again. I love you. I miss you.

I guess I’ll just hold on to our song, Mama. Please visit me in my dreams. I want to hear your voice, even just for a minute.

Always, your daughter, Yuna.

[on a loose piece of paper stolen from the hotel clerk’s desk while he wasn’t looking, May 10, 2009]

Dear Shane,

The last time that Mother’s Day fell on your birthday, you were seven years old. Do you remember that day, when your Dad and I took you ice skating? You still called me maman at that age. Now you call me “Mom” in a very petulant voice. 

But enough of that. I wanted to write this letter because it seemed… I don’t know. Like the stars are aligning, yes? I read my horoscope today and it told me that big things are about to happen. I took that as a sign to get my feelings out there, out here, even just on a piece of paper you won’t read. You’ll probably find it years from now in a box, or I’ll throw it away because I always throw my things away, but I’m writing it down anyway.

It’s a month before draft day. You are eighteen now, and it’s a month until we find out where you’ll be going and what team you’ll be playing for the rest of your life. I know you’re nervous, and scared, and feeling so many things all at once. And I know you’re trying very hard not to show it—you always do that, Shane, and you’ve gotten really good at it. But I notice, okay? I see you. I always see you, baby. 

I wish I could take the fear inside of you and hold it for you for a while. For forever, if I could. So you could breathe and relax for once. Shane, I want you to know this: I love you. Your Dad and I love you. So, so, so  much. I love you when you win, I love you when you lose, and I love you when you aren’t doing anything at all. I will love you if you are first pick, or second pick, or third, or fourth, or if you don’t get drafted at all. I will love you if you play for the Metros, or if you play for the Raiders, or if you play for the Admirals. I love you period. Nothing that happens will ever change that.

I have spent most of your life trying to be the kind of mother who doesn’t make mistakes with you. The kind of mother who doesn’t miss things because she pays attention and asks. I have failed at that more than I have succeeded. But I know, in my heart, that I have never, not for one second, failed at loving you exactly as much as you needed. That, I am certain of. You know why? Because you’re the best son that any parent, any mother could ever ask for.

You are my son, okay? Before you are anyone else, before you become anything else, you are and will always be my son. And I will always be here for you, no matter what. My sweet, darling boy. I am so proud of you. I was already proud of you, before anyone even knew your name outside of our tiny little world. 

And if you are still scared, well, that’s okay. You don’t have to be anything else with me.

Love always,

Maman.

[on the back of a grocery receipt, May 9, 2010]

David, please don’t forget to pack Shane’s suit. And his two favorite ties so that he has a choice. You know how he is. And pack those fancy shoes too. I don’t care if he likes the older ones better. He’ll wear the fancy ones and that’s final. Oh, and tell Lisa I’ll pick up the cake on my way back from the market. Thank you, love you, breakfast is on the table.

[an email that Yuna sends to Montbray, May 8, 2011]

Subject: Re: Partnership Proposal — Shane Hollander

To the Team,

It is clear to us that Montbray places great value not only on craftsmanship and design, but also on representation and meaningful collaboration with new faces and young achievers. Your commitment to diversity within your campaigns, as well as your continued support of hockey and the athletes who shape the sport, is deeply appreciated.

Shane was also very moved by the concept and the story behind your collection. He has always been selective about partnerships, preferring to align himself with brands that feel authentic to who he is both on and off the ice, and Montbray stands out in that regard.

As such, we would be happy to continue with the partnership, and we are eager to keep the conversation and discuss next steps at your convenience.

All the best,

Yuna Hollander

Manager

[on a sticky note stuck to Shane’s fridge in his apartment, May 13, 2012]

Shane,

I need to ask you a serious question: why is your fridge mostly leaves? There are more greens than I have ever seen in one place outside of my garden. You need more protein. Proper protein. Not those shakes you drink that you say has “more protein than a stack of steaks”. Not even you believe that. Real food, please, Shane. I did not raise you all these years just to let you waste away. 

Also, thank you for your present. I know you think you’re subtle, but you are not. Don’t overthink my gifts, okay? I’m serious when I say spending time with you is enough. We barely see you, so I’m always just happy to have you around. Eat something good tonight, for your Maman :)

Love you always. EAT.

[a series of texts between Yuna and David, May 12, 2013]

David: Our son called me again.

Yuna: What did he say?

David: Well, he wants us there. Didn’t say it directly, but I could tell from his voice.

David: So… are we going?

Yuna: I mean, we could.

Yuna: It’s just a two hour drive. Three if it’s you driving.

David: Choosing to ignore that.

Yuna: But he’s got a flight in the morning. I don’t want him too tired.

David: We’ll just have a nice dinner, book us a hotel, then we’ll see him off in the morning.

Yuna: I already made reservations at Diane’s for us.

David: I can cancel them.

Yuna: David.

David: It’s a two hour drive…

David: And he really misses you. When he said “tell mom I said hi and that I love her” in that really sad voice he uses, I almost cried.

Yuna: Do NOT guilt trip me.

David: Come on…

Yuna: David.

David: We can leave within the next hour. I’ll drive the first half so you can nap, and then you take the other half so I can complain about my coworkers.

David: And then when we get there, you’ll get teary-eyed when you see how grown up he is even though you saw him three months ago.

Yuna: Liar. I don’t cry.

Yuna: But fine. Let me pack my overnight bag.

[a text message sent to Shane, May 11, 2014]

Yuna: I just can’t believe it…

Yuna: Boston really might win the cup.

Shane: I know.

Yuna: Well, whatever.

Yuna: Ugh. Rozanov.

Yuna: Hate that guy.

Yuna: You’re still the better player. I don't care if he wins the Cup first.

Shane: I know :) 

 

[on the fourteenth page of an abandoned journal, May 10, 2015]

Dear Shane,

Mother’s Day has once again fallen on your birthday. The last time this happened, it was a month before you got drafted to the Metros. Now, as I am writing this, you are on the brink of winning your first Stanley Cup. So close. We can both almost taste it. And I say first, because I know you will be winning much more. I know it. Mother’s instinct, trust me.

I know this season has taken a lot from you. All this on top of your other responsibilities and commitments. I know how hard you are on yourself. I know you’ve blamed yourself for every missed shot and every loss. And because I know that, I wish that you could just… stop. Take a deep breath, okay?

I want you to know that no matter what happens in the next few days, none of it matters to me, okay? I don’t care if you lose, I don’t care if it takes you until Game Seven. I don’t care for whatever happens, okay? If the world went quiet tomorrow and all hockey disappeared, you would still be my favorite. 

Though, for the record, I would very much like the Cup.

Happy birthday, sweetheart. Thank you for making me a mother twenty-four years ago, and then continuing to make it the greatest privilege of my life every day after that. 

Love always,

Maman.

[on the back of a gas station receipt, stuck on Shane’s fridge with a Boston City magnet, May 8, 2016]

Shane. Please stop leaving your hockey gear in the hallway. It was cute when you were a kid. Mildly annoying when you were a teen. At twenty-five, it is undignified, and I cannot believe you have not outgrown it. And before you say it: I do not care that you are a Stanley Cup champion. Potentially a back-to-back winner, fingers crossed. You are not allowed to make your poor mother with the bad hip trip over your hockey gear. Also, I do not care that it’s your apartment. If anything, that makes it worse.

I moved the bag inside your hall cabinet because I’m a considerate and loving mother. Learn from this.

P.S. Where did you get this magnet???

[in the Hollander group chat, May 14, 2017]

Yuna: I mean, we can still invite Rose.

Yuna: I have her number, I can text her.

David: Yuna…

Yuna: What!

Yuna: I’m just saying, you know, it would be nice to have her over.

Yuna: Talk about her new movie.

Yuna: Ask her why she broke up with my son.

Shane: No.

Shane: You can’t do that. I’m telling her to block your number.

Yuna: Get off your phone!!!!

Shane: Oops.

Shane: I’m a grown man.

Yuna: I’m cutting the internet.

Shane: Wait no please don’t.

[on a sticky note stuck on the fridge at the cottage, May 13, 2018]

Shane and Ilya. Please remember to get the lock on the bathroom near the kitchen checked. I almost got trapped. Also, I cannot believe I’m writing this, but please tone it down. Yes, I know, this is in the middle of nowhere, but you never know which unsuspecting mother—or father—you may accidentally be subjecting to your “activities”.

And before either of you dies of embarrassment: yes, I am sorry for accidentally sneaking up on you this morning. I forgot my bag from last night and I really needed it. In my defense, I did knock. In your defense, absolutely nothing.

See you at the house for dinner. Shane, do not fill up on your green smoothies. Ilya, remind him because he won’t listen to me. Love, Mom.

[on the thirtieth page of a journal, May 12, 2019]

Dear Irina Rozanova,

I hope it’s okay that I am writing to you.

I’ve been thinking about writing this for a long time. First, I thought, I would write one when Ilya finally told us about you. Then, I thought I’d write after that first Mother’s Day we spent with the boys. But neither of those times ever felt right. But now, as I am running a foundation our sons established in your name, I feel I finally have to write this.

Irina, your son is wonderful. I don’t particularly believe in the concept of heaven, but let’s hope for our sake that it exists, and so you can see how amazing of a man your boy turned out to be despite your absence. Ilya is kind, so painfully kind. I used to think he was both bark and bite, you know? He did, after all, play very harshly against my son for a few years. Then again, they’ve been together since the summer before their rookie season, so what do I know, really. But I can tell you this, Irina, your son has so much care in his heart I am almost always afraid it’s going to split him open with how much it overflows from him.

But more than that, Ilya loves my son very much. I wish you could see them together. I do not presume to know how you would react to them together—if you would accept it as easily as we did. Ilya says you would and I believe him. Which is why I am saying this confidently. I wish you could meet my son, and so you could see how much he softens around Ilya. I wish you could see how Ilya looks at him like he’s the only one he ever cares about in this world.

There’s many other things that he does, too. He sends me chocolates for my birthday no matter where he is in the world at the time. Every summer, at Shane’s cottage, he’d drive over to our house and help me tend to my garden. He sits on the kitchen counter and completes puzzles with David. A beautiful boy, your son. God, I wish you could see him. I really, really do.

I know I’m not his mother. I will never try to replace you. So much of him belongs only to you and always will. But I hope that you would let me love him anyway, as a son, because I already do. And if Shane is serious about him—and in my heart, I know he is, because I’ve never seen Shane like this before—then Ilya is good as my son too. My love knows no distinctions. I woke up one day and he’s become my own, just as much as Shane is. Just as much as Shane would have been yours, too, if you were here. 

I will do my best to take care of him. Stepping in whenever necessary. I hope that’s alright with you. He really is a wonderful boy, Irina. From one mother to another, trust me, you have done well. I just thought you should know.

Yours truly,

Yuna.

[on a legal pad paper, May 10, 2020]

Dear Shane,

Here we are again, your birthday on Mother’s Day. You know, I’m starting to think someone up there is playing a giant joke on us. The first time I wrote a letter for you under the same circumstances, you got drafted to the Metros. Next, you won your first Cup. Now, you are once again at the brink of winning your third. THIRD!!! My amazing boy. I genuinely have no words anymore. I am so, so proud of you.

What else is there left to say, even? There’s so much joy in my heart, Shane, you have no idea. Twenty-nine years, wow. I’ve been a mother for twenty-nine years. I can't believe that you were just this tiny thing in my arms. And now you’re almost, ALMOST a three-time Stanley Cup winner. Oh, my baby, everything you have ever wanted and more. I love you so, so much. As proud as I am of your accomplishment, I am always more proud of being your mother. No trophy is greater than having you as my son. 

Love always,

Maman

[on the Hollander groupchat, May 9, 2021]

Yuna: Alright, I can’t take it anymore. Whoever ate my cubano, count your days.

Yuna: There was a NOTE on the wrapper that said “Yuna. Don’t touch.”

Yuna: What part of DON’T do you people not get?

Shane: It was Ilya

David: It was Ilya

Ilya: TRAITORS 😡

Ilya: Not that I am admitting to anything. It was not me. I don't even like sandwiches.

Shane: You make tuna melts every time you go back from a run.

Ilya: So?

Ilya: Tuna melt is not cubano. 🙄

Ilya: Shanya, are you okay? Do I need to take you to the hospital? You seem to be confusing things.

Shane: Aw, it’s nice that you think I’m not locking you out of the house.

Ilya: Also David I did not expect betrayal from you.

Ilya: I will not forget that.

Ilya: Again, not that I’m admitting to anything.

Ilya: I am innocent.

Ilya: Try to lock me out of the house and I will tell Anya to piss on your shoes.

Shane: Oh you are definitely sleeping on the porch now.

Shane: Hope you like the weather today 😁

Yuna: WELL, it doesn't matter. Next time please do not eat my food.

Yuna: And whoever it was… I better have a new sandwich in the next hour.

Shane: Yeah, Ilya, she better have a new sandwich in the next hour.

David: Whatever he said.

Ilya: I cannot believe I am marrying into this family.

Ilya: You are all uninvited from the wedding.

Shane: Can’t uninvite, sorry.

Ilya: Who said?

Shane: Me, the other groom.

Ilya: 😍

Yuna: Very sweet, boys, but I really would like food.

Ilya: Of course, моя мама

[an email that Yuna sends to Rolex, May 8, 2022]

Subject: Re: Partnership Extension Proposal for Ilya Rozanov

To whom it may concern, 

Thank you very much for your thoughtful message and for extending this partnership opportunity to Ilya Rozanov.

We truly appreciate your continued confidence in Shane, as well as your interest in collaborating with Ilya alongside him. It is always meaningful to see brands recognize athletic excellence while supporting visibility and representation within professional sports. As two LGBTQ+ athletes and openly queer men competing at the highest level of hockey, Shane and Ilya understand the importance of that visibility, and I know opportunities like this carry significance beyond the game itself. 

I will be forwarding your proposal to Ilya’s agent and management team for further discussion and review. I am certain both my son and his husband would be delighted by the opportunity and honored by your consideration.

Warm regards,

Yuna Hollander

Manager

[on the back of the draft of a speech Ilya made for the NHL Awards Night, May 14, 2023]

David, please buy the following:

• Eggs, 3 trays
• Salmon belly, 2 packs. But if there’s a whole salmon just buy one.
• Potatoes
• Basmati rice
• Rye bread for Ilya
• Olive oil
• Dill
• Sour cream
• Pickles. Do NOT buy Grillo’s.
• Smoked garlic sausage for Ilya
• Dark chocolate almonds. Do NOT buy Meiji. Buy from the stall by the exit. The one with the gaudy sign.
• Greek yogurt
• Spinach
• Avocado for Shane
• Coffee
• Tropicana

Don’t forget also to get donuts on the way home. I love you.

[a snippet of an interview of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, three weeks before they win their second Stanley Cup together, cut from People by Yuna and tacked on a corkboard above her desk, May 12, 2024]

Unfortunately, I did what my editor warned me repeatedly not to do: pit the husbands against each other. In my defense, it had not been a serious question. I’d only jokingly asked which of them the famed Yuna Hollander liked more. Apparently, that, too, is a point of contention for the hockey husbands.

SH: Me, easily. What kind of question is that?

IR: False. She is obligated to like you because she gave birth to you, but she chose me.

SH: You are crazy.

IR: Is not you that she sends recipes to.

SH: She sends me recipes too. It’s not my fault you don’t [expletive] sleep and you're awake every hour of the day. 

IR: How is that related to the point?

SH: Just means she talks to you more.

IR: Ah, so you are a bad son? Because you don't talk to her?

SH: Oh, [expletive] you! Sorry, oh my God, we are being awful. I'm so sorry. Ilya is an awful influence on me.

IR: You started it—

SH: —how in the absolute—

IR: —because you would not admit I am her favorite son.

SH: She hugs me first when she sees us!

IR: Yes because you pull those evil manipulative eyes on her and so she feels awful and has to hug you.

SH: What even are you talking about anymore?

IR: She has me as phone background.

SH: She has both of us as her phone background!

IR: Yes but I am in front of you so that means I am the best.

Sh: You know what, whatever. I don’t care.

Later, privately, as I put on my shoes to leave their house, Ilya Rozanov leans to whisper to me: “Yuna definitely loves him the most. I just like to rile him up.”

Oh, we could really only hope to be loved like that.

[a voice message sent May 11, 2025, received on iMessage through the Hollander group chat]

Yuna: Listen, boys, I do not care that there are six Cups between the two of you. Please teach Anya NOT to shit in my garden. I spent three hours with my back bent low planting my cucumbers. I do NOT want to come across dog poo when I check them in the morning. No, Ilya, she is not a “baby”, she is a fully grown dog. Dinner is at six. Bring wine. And dessert. Okay, love you, bye.

[from an iPhone video recording, May 10, 2026]

Yuna: Okay, come here, you two.

[From behind the camera, Shane groans. Still off-screen, he asks, “Really?”]

Yuna: Okay, fine, just my other son then. Ilya, come here.

[Immediately, both Shane and Ilya appear on the screen, coming from different sides. Ilya has a smug look on his face, Shane is rolling his eyes.]

Shane: You know, it’s my birthday. You two are legally prohibited from making fun of me. Or pissing me off.

Yuna: It’s also Mother’s Day, I can do what I want.

[Ilya is nodding. The smug look on his face stays.]

Ilya: Yeah, Shane, she can do what she wants.

Yuna: Alright, shush, before you two start fighting again. David, take the picture already.

[From behind the camera, David laughs.]

David: Okay, okay, one, two—wait, aw, it’s a video recording—

Yuna: Really, David? You are so—

 

[at the Hollander residence, May 12, 1991]

It’s an early Sunday morning for her, so it seems. Delirious, still, from the lack of sleep, Yuna stares at Shane bundled up beside her. Sometimes, or, really, all of the time, in all of two days, she still can’t believe he’s real. A strange miracle in the form of a child. She traces the slope of his little nose with her eyes, then the delicate bow of his lips, pink and parted slightly in sleep. There’s a spot of dried milk at the corner of his mouth. An impossibly small first rests near his cheek.

There’d been heavy rain two nights ago. A long thirteen hours of labor. When he finally came out of her, he was silent. She had thought, at first, that he was born dead. She was just starting to panic when his wailing pierced the air—the most beautiful sound Yuna has ever heard in her life. And then she herself was crying, weak with relief, as they placed him against her chest, his damp curls plastered to his tiny head. Raw, bloody, remnants of vernix still around his pale skin; he was rooting blindly towards her like he already knows who she’s supposed to be. Some cosmic tie.

Now, Yuna leans over to place a soft kiss to the apple of his cheek, baby smooth and milk soft. How beautiful, she thinks. A piece of her heart outside her body. Shane Hollander, her son. She takes a deep breath, then whispers: “My beautiful boy. It’s you and me, my love.”

—this place could be beautiful, right?

You could make this place beautiful.

Good Bones, Maggie Smith