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“You’re a fucking degenerate, just like your uncle! Get out of my house!”
Her father shoved Yulya out the door hard enough that she stumbled and landed on her ass on the hard pavement. Her face was on fire from the slaps and hits, and she knew that it was going to bruise badly.
The door slammed shut with a loud bang.
Fuck. She had been so stupid. She should have burned those pictures. Sonya broke up with her anyway, told her that she had a boyfriend now, that they were just a mistake, so why hang onto those stupid pictures, just for Papa to find them? God, she was a fucking idiot.
The door cracked open, just a little bit, and her mother peeked out. Yulya scrambled to her feet, rushing to her.
“Mama, I-”
She wanted to hug her. She wanted her mama to tell her that everything would be alright, that papa would calm down, that they still loved her.
Mama stopped her with a firm hand on her chest.
“Take this and go, Yuliya.”
She pushed an envelope in her hand, whispering hurriedly.
“Mama, please...”
“Don’t come back. He’ll kill you if you do.”
Yulya opened her mouth to answer, to beg, but her mother already closed the door.
Yulya walked.
It was dark when she came to her senses, dark and cold. She had no idea what part of Moscow she was in. She reached into her pocket for a cigarette, but she left it at home. She left everything at home. Her hand brushed against paper, and she pulled out the envelope her mama had given her. She peeked inside: money, and a folded piece of paper.
There was an address written on the paper. A Canadian address.
You’re a fucking degenerate, just like your uncle!
Uncle Ilya.
They didn’t speak much of him. Only when Papa got drunk or high and cursed his faggot brother, taking it up the ass in Canada, bringing shame to the family.
Yulya didn’t even remember him. He was a ghost, a stain on the family name, a shameful secret.
Just like Yulya would be now.
She had searched him on the internet a couple of times. Watched some of his interviews, his games. There were pictures of him and his husband, another hockey player. They seemed happy.
Yulya carefully counted the money. Mama must have stashed it away over the years, so Papa wouldn’t spend it on coke and booze. It wasn’t much, but maybe enough for a plane ticket.
******
It was a nice house. Way too nice. Uncle Ilya was rich, she knew that, but this was a clear testament to it. Yulya hesitated at the door. Maybe he wasn’t even at home. Maybe he wanted nothing to do with his fucked up niece. He hated Papa, after all.
But what else was she supposed to do?
So she rang the doorbell.
It wasn’t Uncle Ilya who opened the door. Another man. Yulya recognised him from the pictures: the husband. She couldn't remember his name.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
Yulya swallowed, tugging her jacket closer.
“I...Is Ilya Rozanov here?”
Her accent was shit, she knew that. The man seemed even more confused now than before.
“What do you want from Ilya?” he asked, protective.
She might as well tell him if she wanted to be let in.
“I’m niece. Yuliya Rozanova. Uhm, brother’s daughter?”
The man blinked, surprised. Then he moved to the side, gesturing for her to enter.
“Come on in. Ilya!” he yelled.
A small dog ran up to Yulya, barking excitedly and jumping on her leg. She bent down to scratch her ears.
“This is Anya, don’t mind her,” the husband smiled. “And I’m Shane. Shane Hollander. I’m Ilya’s...” he trailed off, hesitant.
“Husband. Da, I know.”
“Who is it, lyubimiy?” came a voice.
Russian accent. Yulya straightened her back.
He didn’t look like Papa, not at all. More like Grandmother Irina. But he and Yulya were related; there was no denying that.
“Ilya, this is-” Shane started, but Yulya cut him off.
“Dyadya.”
Uncle Ilya stared at her wide-eyed.
“Yulechka,” he said, voice wavering.
“Da,” Yulya nodded, shifting uncomfortably under the stares.
“What happened to your face?” Uncle Ilya asked in Russian, and Yulya flinched.
The bruises had turned an ugly shade of blue and purple by now.
“A parting gift from papa,” she replied, shrugging. “He kicked me out.”
Uncle Ilya cursed, his hands clenching into fists.
“I’m gonna kill Alexei,” he said, and there was so much anger in his voice. “Fucking asshole.”
He walked up to to Yulya, who was still awkwardly standing in the middle of the living room.
“Why did he...?”
Yulya swallowed. She should tell them. They were married, for fucks sake. They wouldn't be angry. Probably.
“He...he found pictures. Of me. Of me and a girl,” she rubbed her eyes, refusing to let the tears spill over. “He kicked me out. He’ll kill me if I go back. I have nothing. Please...”
She was begging now, she knew it. So she forced herself to shut up.
To her surprise, it wasn’t Uncle Ilya who reacted first, but his husband. Shane’s Russian was broken and heavily accented, but still understandable.
“Of course you can stay here. Yes, Ilya?”
Uncle Ilya nodded, still in a daze. Shane got up from the couch, gently touching his husband’s arm, whispering something into his ear. That seemed to snap him out of it, at least, and he looked up, forcing a faint smile on his face.
“Yes, of course. You can stay as long as you want, Yulechka. We’re family, of course I’ll help you.”
Yulya’s shoulders sagged in relief. She still felt like crying, but she didn’t.
“Are you...old enough to stay here?” Shane asked gently.
“Yes. I’m 18, my birthday was last month.”
“I’ll call our lawyer,” Shane said, switching back to English. “We can arrange for a temporary visa, so you can stay here, then petition for a permanent one later on.”
“Good idea,” Ilya nodded. “And you have your trust, so you can buy whatever you need here.”
“Trust?” Yulya echoed, frowning.
“Your trust,” Ilya repeated. “The one I put aside for you. You were supposed to receive it once you turned 18.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” she said, still confused.
Ilya pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly frustrated.
“Fucking Alexei.”
He sighed, looking at Yulya again.
“I’ll deal with it. Point is, you have money now. You can go to university, or rent a place, or whatever you want.”
“But,” Shane said, putting his hand on Ilya’s shoulder. “You can also stay here, as long as you want to, okay? We would love to get to know you.”
Anya barked, as if in agreement, running up and down excitedly.
“Yes,” Ilya nodded. “I don’t have any other family who talks to me. It’ll be nice, to have a niece, I think.”
Yulya nodded, feeling overwhelmed.
“I’ll prepare the guest room,” Shane said. “And something to eat. And tomorrow, I’ll call the lawyer.”
They ushered her to the dining room, put a hot mug of tea in her hand, while Shane fussed with the pasta recipe, and Uncle Ilya kept asking questions, trying to make sure she was alright. It was too much, and perfectly enough at the same time. It felt like...home. Or like it could be home, one day.
Yulya let herself cry.