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Ilya Rosanov was twelve years old when he found his mum.
He'd gone in search of her after returning home from school. His father had just lectured him about something. A disappointing grade on some homework, or perhaps his team had lost their hockey game. Or maybe it was soccer? There was a time he played both, but eventually he showed more talent for hockey. His father had let slip, during this lecture, that he hadn’t seen his mother since shortly after Ilya had left for school.
Ilya was sad at his father's anger, and hadn’t quite learned the skill to mask that yet. His father had told him how Ilya was just like his mother. Too sensitive. Couldn’t even take an ounce of criticism without crying about it. How he would probably hide from his father for the rest of the day, like his wife had hid from her husband all morning and afternoon.
Ilya went to look for her. He wanted to see if she was alright. Perhaps, maybe selfishly - he would think later - he’d wanted the comfort of his mother's arms too.
Eventually, he found her in the bathroom.
Ilya thought she had fallen asleep at first. Perhaps she hadn’t made it to bed? She always seemed so tired lately. And sad.
“Mama,” Ilya whispered. He crouched and reached out to gently touch her shoulder. “Mama, it is cold here.” He spoke in his native tongue. “Your bed will be more comfortable to sleep in.”
His mother didn’t stir. Ilya’s eyebrows furrowed, “Mama,” he spoke, slightly louder to get her attention, the hand on her shoulder a little more firm. Still, there was no recognition she had heard him.
Ilya looked around then, properly taking in the scene before him. His mother’s hand wrapped around a still open, empty bottle of what he knew contained medicine just for her. She felt cold, and stiff, as though she’d been there for a while. Ilya watched his mother for a moment, something seemed wrong. She was more than stiff, she was still. Too still.
It only took a few moments more for him to realise why she couldn’t hear him. Why she was so still. He tore his hand away and ran to the top of the stairs and screamed “PAPA!”
It was a long night after that. Police came, an ambulance came - everyone came. But it was too late. They couldn't save her.
Days later, hours after her funeral, his father called her weak. His brother, Alexei, sad and broken in his own way, agreed. Ilya stayed silent. He did not want to cause a scene, but he did not think his mother was weak.
His mother was warm, and as bright as the sun. She had helped him grow without burning him too. She was there, always there. No matter what, growing up, Ilya knew that if he needed his mother she would rise to take care of him, all day and every day, until she tucked him into bed at night.
She was always there, until one day she wasn’t.
Ilya hid as much of his mothers things as he could before his father burnt or sold everything. Papers, journals, photographs, jewellery - anything he could think of, anything he could see.
Everything, his father informed them just days after her funeral, everything of hers would go. That same evening, while his father and Alexei smoked cigars in the dining room, Ilya snuck into his parents room with a rucksack.
He found his mother's birth certificate, and journals she’d kept throughout her life.
He found the delicate gold cross necklace she’d been wearing that night. The one which doctors had handed to Ilya before his father had ripped it from his hands.
He found photo albums containing her childhood, and then later some containing his. Her favourite book, which now frayed at the edges from being opened and turned too many times. He spied one bottle of perfume, only a few drops left, and swiped that too. He put them all in his rucksack, and then he went to his room and hid it under a loose floorboard he’d never told anyone about.
For months, he didn’t dare take anything out. He checked, every day after school, he looked to make sure that everything was still there. His father followed through on his promise and by the time Ilya woke up the following morning, it was as though his mother had never existed.
Ilya didn’t blame his mother. He never thought she was weak, like his father and brother.
She was tired. She was sad. He learned from her journals, years later when he found the courage to read them, that she felt she wasn’t a good enough wife to her husband, or mother to her kids.
Ilya wished he had known her fears back then. He wished he could go back and tell her how untrue that was. He could tell her how she was the best mother he could have asked for. He hopes she knows now, wherever she is, that, despite everything, he is so grateful that she was his mother. That he got to spend twelve wonderful years with her.
And it’s only in the late hours.
The hours where everyone else sleeps, and he remains awake, that he can’t help but think. He can’t help but feel.
He doesn’t blame his mother. He doesn’t hate her at all.
Just sometimes, only sometimes, he also wishes that he’d been enough to make her stay.