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The Hollander living room was warm that late morning Ottawa way. Sunlight pooled on the rug, the faint smell of coffee drifted from the kitchen. Shane and David had stepped out to the garage, leaving Ilya and Yuna alone.
Ilya had been fighting sleep for a while. He hadn’t slept well the previous night. Bad dreams again.
He sat too straight, arms folded, blinking like he could bully his body into staying awake. Yuna watched him from her armchair, amused. “You’re allowed to relax, you know,” she said gently.
“I am relaxed,” he insisted, right before his head dipped forward.
“Mhm. Of course you are.”
He shot her a tired glare, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. A minute later, exhaustion won. His shoulders softened, his posture melted, and he tipped sideways until his head rested back against the couch cushion.
Within moments, he was truly asleep, his face unguarded in a way Yuna had only seen in quiet moments around Shane.
Yuna stood, retrieved a soft throw blanket, and returned to drape it over him. She moved slowly, careful not to wake him.
But as the blanket settled, Ilya stirred. His brow creased, his lips parted, and in a voice so small and instinctive it didn’t sound like him at all, he mumbled:
“Спасибо, мама.”
Yuna froze, breath catching. Her hand hovered mid‑air, eyes wide.
Mama?
She stepped back like she had been physically hit. Her hand flew to her mouth as her eyes filled. “Oh my god,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Ilya…”
She turned away, trying to compose herself. She pressed her palms to her cheeks, willing herself to hold it together.
He called me— he actually—
She paced once, silently, trying to breathe through it. She wiped her eyes, only for more tears to spill over.
“Get it together, Yuna,” she whispered, voice trembling. “He’s sleeping. Don’t wake him. Don’t you dare wake him.”
But the tears kept coming anyway. Hot, overwhelming, unstoppable. She glanced back at him.
Ilya was already drifting deeper, blanket tucked around him, face soft and peaceful in a way that made her chest ache.
She sat on the edge of the coffee table, shoulders shaking.
I’m not crying. Yuna thought to hersef—which was a total lie—as she wiped her face again. I’m just emotional. That’s all. A sniffle escaped her. Okay, maybe I’m crying a little.
She looked at him again, and her voice softened into something fierce and tender.
“You deserved a family that made you feel safe. You shouldn’t have been forced to grow up as you did. And you should still have your mother.” Her throat tightened. “You have one now. A family. A mother,” she whispered. “If you want me.”
She took a deep breath, trying to pull herself together before Shane and David returned. She dabbed at her eyes, smoothed her hair, and inhaled slowly. But when she looked at Ilya again—curled under her blanket, trusting her house enough to sleep—her face crumpled all over again.
She shook her head in disbelief. “Oh, Ilya…”
And she let herself cry quietly, because some moments are too big to hold in.
…
Yuna had mostly composed herself.
Which meant that she had wiped her face, taken several deep breaths, and told herself, You are a grown woman, you can handle this, even though her heart was still doing that painful squeezing in her chest. She sat in the armchair across the room from Ilya, hands clasped in her lap, staring at Ilya like he was some kind of fragile miracle.
He shifted in his sleep, curling slightly under the blanket. Yuna’s eyes filled again.
“Nope,” she whispered to herself, pressing fingers under her eyes. “We are not doing round two. Absolutely not.”
She sniffed. Tried to look normal.
That was exactly when the garage door opened. Shane and David stepped inside mid‑conversation. “I’m telling you, it was right there behind the—” Shane stopped. “Mom, are you okay? Did something happen?”
David blinked. “Honey?”
Yuna sat up straighter, too fast. “Yes! Everything’s fine. Perfect. Why wouldn’t it be?”
Shane stared at her. “Because you sound like someone who’s definitely not fine.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” she insisted, wiping at her eyes in a way that absolutely betrayed her.
David glanced at the couch. “Did Ilya fall asleep?”
“Yeah,” Yuna murmured, voice wobbling. “Yeah. He’s asleep.”
Shane’s eyes softened. “He’s been so exhausted lately.”
Yuna nodded, swallowing hard. “He was. And I put a blanket on him and he—” Her voice cracked. She covered her mouth, trying to hold it in. “He said… he called me… mama.”
Shane’s heart ached. “Oh.”
Yuna let out a tiny, strangled noise. “And he said a Russian word first, something like spa-sea-bow. I wasn’t sure what that meant. But the ‘mama” part was very clear.”
Shane walked over, crouched beside her chair, and put a hand on her knee.
“Mom,” he said gently, “was it ‘Спасибо?’”
Yuna just nodded, “I think so, yeah. What does that mean?”
“It means ‘thank you,’” Shane replied through misty eyes of his own.
Yuna’s face crumpled again. “And Shane, he’s never had—he didn’t—” She pressed her hand to her chest. “He shouldn’t have had to grow up like that.”
Shane squeezed her knee. “I know.”
“I just…” She looked at Ilya again, voice turning raw. “I just want him to know he has a mother who loves him. Even if she arrived late. Even if it’s adopted.”
“I think he already does,” David said warmly.
Yuna covered her face with both hands. “I’m not crying,” she insisted, voice thick. “I’m just…emotionally overwhelmed.”
Shane snorted. “That’s literally the definition of crying.”
She swatted at him blindly as he chuckled then looked at Ilya, curled up, peaceful, blanket tucked around him.
“Mom,” Shane said softly. “He does love you guys. You know that, right? You guys are home to him.”
Yuna looked at Ilya again, and this time tears shed without resistance. It was soft, quiet, and grateful.
She didn’t approach him or wake him. She just sat there and let herself love him.
She let herself be loved back, too.
…
Ilya slept deeply: the kind of sleep he only ever managed when his guard finally dropped. The house stayed quiet around him, sunlight shifting across the floor, the quiet noise of conversation drifting from the other room. Yuna sat in the living room with Ilya, a book in her hands, and her eyes drifting to him every so often.
She’d calmed. Mostly.
Her face wasn’t wet anymore, but her chest still felt tight, tender and aching. Every time she replayed that tiny, sleepy mama in her head, her throat squeezed all over again.
Eventually, Ilya stirred: a soft inhale, a shift of his shoulders. His hand brushed the blanket, and he blinked awake, slow and groggy.
He pushed himself upright, rubbing his eyes. “How long was I out?”
“About an hour.”
He nodded, embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on your couch.”
“You don’t have to apologize for resting,” Yuna said, voice warm.
He looked down at the blanket draped over him. His fingers brushed the edge of it, thoughtful. “You covered me?”
“Didn’t want you to get cold.”
He nodded again. “Thank you.”
Yuna’s heart squeezed. She kept her expression soft, steady. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”
Ilya froze for half a second, not in discomfort, but in that startled way someone reacts when they’re not used to being spoken to gently. Then he looked away, clearing his throat.
Shane and David wandered back in from the kitchen. Shane spotted Ilya awake and grinned.
“Hey, welcome back.”
Ilya glared half-heartedly. “Shut up.”
David chuckled. “Have a nice nap?”
Ilya nodded back. “It felt good.” He stretched, the blanket slipping off his shoulders, and Yuna instinctively reached to fix it before stopping herself.
He noticed. But he didn’t pull away.
Shane leaned against the doorway, watching the two of them with a soft, knowing expression.
“You good?” he asked Ilya.
Ilya nodded. “Yeah. Just tired still.”
Yuna swallowed, her voice gentle. “You’re safe here. You can rest as much as you need.”
Ilya’s eyes flicked to hers, brief, but full of something unspoken. Gratitude. Vulnerability. Maybe even a little longing. He didn’t say anything, though.
Yuna felt her eyes sting again, but she blinked it away. She didn’t want to overwhelm him. Not now. Not when he’d just let himself be soft in her home.
She stood abruptly, smoothing her hands over her blouse. “You guys hungry? I can make lunch.”
Ilya hesitated, the kind of hesitation that came from a lifetime of not wanting to be a burden. He exhaled after a moment, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yes. Thank you.”
Yuna’s heart warmed. “Good. Then sit. Rest. I’ll take care of it.” She turned toward the kitchen, but paused in the doorway, looking back at him, curled slightly under her blanket, hair mussed from sleep, eyes still soft around the edges.
He looked… young.
Not childish or fragile. Just young in a way he never got to be.
Yuna pressed a hand to her chest, quietly steadying herself. He called me mama, she thought, the memory blooming warmly all over again. She let herself smile—small, private, full of love—before heading to the kitchen to make him lunch.
…
For the rest of the afternoon, Yuna held herself together with the kind of determination only a mother could muster.
She made tea. She asked the boys about their week. She laughed at David’s dry jokes and swatted Shane with a dish towel when he teased her about fussing. She even offered Ilya a second helping of lunch, which he accepted with a shy, grateful nod.
And she never once mentioned the word he’d murmured in his sleep. She didn’t even let herself think it too loudly. But every time she looked at him, her heart squeezed so tightly she had to take a breath.
As the afternoon wound down. Coats were eventually gathered and shoes were pulled on. The front hallway filled with the familiar shuffle of people preparing to leave.
Shane hugged Yuna first, then David.
Then Ilya stepped forward.
He didn’t hug her—he never assumed that kind of closeness—but he paused in front of her, hands in his pockets, posture a little uncertain.
“Thank you for today,” he said quietly.
“You’re welcome, honey,” Yuna replied, steady and warm.
He bent to tie his shoes, and she watched him, watched the way he double-knotted them too tightly, watched the way his shoulders curled inward.
When he stood, she reached out without thinking and brushed a bit of lint from his sleeve. A small gesture. But he froze like she’d triggered something deeper.
“There,” Yuna murmured. “All set.”
He nodded, eyes flicking away to Shane briefly. “Thanks.”
Yuna should’ve let him go. She meant to. But the words rose up before she could stop them, soft and trembling and too full to swallow. “Ilya.”
He looked up.
And she broke.
Not dramatically, with tears or shaking hands, but with a softness.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she whispered.
His brow furrowed. “I… didn’t think I did.”
She smiled. “I just wanted you to know.”
He blinked, confused.
She took a breath, steadying herself. “You’re allowed to feel safe here. You’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to… let yourself be cared for.”
His throat bobbed. He didn’t speak.
She stepped back just enough to give him space, but her voice stayed gentle, warm, full of fondness she couldn’t hide anymore.
"If you ever need your family, we're here." she said softly, “You don’t have to look far.”
Ilya’s breath hitched. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
The way his shoulders loosened, the way his eyes softened, the way he nodded once said everything. “Thank you,” he murmured.
It was enough to make Yuna’s chest ache in the best way.
She smiled and opened the door. “Come back soon, you two.”
Ilya stepped outside into the cool Ottawa air, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like he was leaving something behind. He felt like he was carrying something with him.
…
The house was dark except for the soft glow of the bedside lamps. Shane was half under the blankets, scrolling on his phone, while Ilya lay stiffly beside him, staring at the ceiling like it personally offended him.
Ilya had been quiet since they got home. Too quiet. Not brooding, just… thinking. Too much.
Shane finally nudged him with his knee. “You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you’re thinking so hard you forget how to blink.”
Ilya blinked. Once. Slowly. Then again.
Shane snorted. “Yeah. That one.”
Ilya sighed and rolled onto his side, facing Shane but not quite looking at him. “Your mom… acted weird today.”
Shane raised an eyebrow. “Weird how?”
“I don’t know,” Ilya said, frowning. “She was being… extra sweet. Like she was trying not to scare me.”
Shane set his phone down now. “Uh‑huh.”
“And she kept looking at me like…” Ilya paused, searching for the right word. “Like she knew something I didn’t.”
Shane’s mouth twitched. “She did.”
Ilya stared. “What does that mean?”
Shane hesitated for exactly one second before deciding honesty was the only option.
“You, uh… said something in your sleep.”
Ilya’s stomach dropped. “What did I say?”
Shane winced. “Promise you won’t freak out.”
“I’m already freaking out.”
“Okay, fair.” Shane took a breath. “You thanked her for the blanket and you called her ‘mama.’”
Silence.
Absolute, suffocating silence.
Ilya’s face went red so fast it was almost impressive.
“No,” he said immediately. “I didn’t.”
“You did. Well it was actually ‘Спасибо, мама.’”
“I would never—”
“You did.”
“I don’t—I—” Ilya buried his face in his hands. “Oh my god.”
Shane tried—tried—not to laugh. “Hey, it’s okay. Really.”
“No, it’s not,” Ilya groaned into his palms. “I can’t believe I said that. Out loud. To your mother.”
“You were half-asleep,” Shane tried to reassure his boyfriend.
“That doesn’t make it better!” Shane scooted closer, nudging Ilya’s shoulder. “Look at me.”
Ilya didn’t move.
Shane gently tugged his hands away from his face. “She wasn’t weirded out. She did cry a little bit.”
Ilya’s voice was barely audible. “I made your mother cry?” Ilya couldn’t believe it. Ilya was beginning to spiral.
“Yeah,” Shane admitted softly. “But not because she was mad or uncomfortable.”
Ilya swallowed hard. “Then why?”
Shane’s expression softened into something warm and painfully gentle. “Because she loves you. And because she knows how you grew up, what you didn’t get. Hearing you say that—even accidentally—I think it really meant something to her.”
Ilya stared at him, eyes wide, vulnerable in a way he rarely let himself be.
“I didn’t mean to say it.”
“I know, I know,” Shane said. “But…you feel it.”
Ilya’s breath hitched, slowly nodding back. He didn’t deny it. Not anymore.
Shane reached out and brushed his thumb along Ilya’s cheekbone. “You see her that way. It’s okay. She sees you that way, too.”
Ilya closed his eyes, mortified and overwhelmed all at once. “I can’t face her now.”
“You can,” Shane said gently. “And you will. How you feel is nothing to be ashamed of.”
Ilya groaned again, flopping onto his back. “This is humiliating.”
Shane laughed softly and curled against him, resting his head on Ilya’s shoulder. “It’s not humiliating. It’s human.”
Ilya didn’t answer. But after a moment, he shifted and leaned into Shane, letting warmth settle around him. Shane’s voice softened. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Ilya exhaled shakily. “I know.”
“And she’s not going to think any less of you. She already sees you as a son anyway.”
“I know.”
“And she’s not going to stop caring.”
Ilya swallowed. “I hope not.”
Shane smiled into his shoulder. “Good.”
They lay there in the quiet, the room warm and still. Ilya stared at the ceiling again, but this time his expression was softer.
And when Shane reached for his hand under the blankets, Ilya didn’t hesitate.
He squeezed back.
…
Ilya found himself back in the Hollander’s kitchen, alone this time. Shane had already left to head back to Montreal that morning. The room was warm and bright in the morning light. Yuna stood at the stove, humming softly as she scrambled eggs in a pan, before turning her attention to the bacon cooking in another one. There were ingredients for pancakes on the counter, just waiting to be made. The house smelled like butter and maple syrup already.
Ilya hovered in the doorway.
He hadn’t slept well. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard Shane’s voice again: you called her ‘mama.’ and, ‘well it was actually ‘Спасибо, мама.’
He wanted to crawl into a hole.
Instead, he was here. In her kitchen.
Yuna turned, smiling warmly. “Good morning, sweetheart.”
Ilya nearly died on the spot.
He cleared his throat. “Morning.”
“Hungry?” Yuna glanced at Ilya a few seconds before returning her attention to the stove.
“No,” Ilya answered automatically. “Yes…Maybe.”
She laughed softly. “Sit. I’ll make you a plate.”
He obeyed, stiff as a board, hands clasped on the table like he was awaiting sentencing.
Yuna set a plate in front of him—many slices of bacon and a mound of eggs. She sat across from him at the island with her coffee.
He stared at the food like it might explode.
Yuna tilted her head. “Something on your mind? Something happen with Shane this morning?”
Ilya’s whole body tensed. “I… uh… yes. Maybe. I don’t know. Not with Shane, he’s good.”
She waited.
He swallowed hard. “I wanted to… apologize.”
Yuna blinked, truly dumbfounded. “For what?”
He stared at the table. “For… yesterday.”
She frowned gently. “Yesterday was great, we love having you guys here.”
“No, I mean—” He rubbed his face with both hands. “When I fell asleep.”
“You were tired, Ilya.”
“That’s not—” He groaned. “Shane told me what I said.”
Yuna’s expression softened instantly.
Ilya nodded miserably. “I didn’t mean to say that. I wasn’t thinking. I don’t—I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t,” she said.
“I shouldn’t have—”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He looked up, startled by how firm her voice was.
Yuna reached across the table, resting her hand near his, close enough he could take it if he wanted.
“Ilya,” she said softly. “You were exhausted. You felt safe, and something slipped that you’ve been carrying.” She looked at him through loving eyes. “It made me very happy to hear that from you, and I love that I can be that for you.”
His throat tightened.
“I don’t just call people that,” he whispered more to himself than anyone.
“I know.” Yuna understood why this was so difficult for him.
“And I don’t want you to think I’m trying to replace—”
“I don’t,” she said gently. “I know you’re not. And I would never try to replace your mother.”
He stared at her, vulnerable in a way he usually only ever let Shane see.
Yuna continued, voice warm and steady. “But I know what you didn’t get growing up. And if some part of you feels… comforted here? If some part of you sees me that way?” She smiled, soft and aching. “That’s not something you need to apologize for.”
Ilya’s breath hitched. He looked down at the table, blinking rapidly. “I just… I don’t want to make things weird.”
“You haven’t,” she said. “Not even a little.”
He swallowed. “I made you cry.”
Yuna let out a tiny, embarrassed laugh. “Yes. You did.” She smiled. “Because I care about you. I want you to feel safe here, with me and David. And hearing that, even if said by accident, told me you already do.”
Ilya’s eyes stung. He didn’t cry, but he came close.
Yuna gently brushed his knuckles with her fingertips, a small, careful gesture.
“You don’t have to call me anything you’re not ready for,” she said. “You don’t owe me that. But you also don’t have to be ashamed of what slipped out, or how you might feel.”
He nodded slowly, breathing unsteady. “Okay,” he whispered, giving a small sniff.
“Good. Now eat before everything gets cold.”
He let out a shaky laugh, small, but real, and picked up his fork.
And as he took the first bite, warm and sweet and comforting, he realized something: he didn’t feel mortified. Just… held. In a way he hadn’t expected. In a way he didn’t want to lose.