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Kyro plasters on a forced smile. “I’m sorry, but my father passed away when I was in high school, and my mother and I don’t speak anymore.”
“I’m so sorry.” My mother empathizes.
My hand moves to grab his hand and he takes it, intertwining his fingers with my own. His father died when he was that young. It must have been hard for him. I also couldn’t imagine not speaking to my mother. I’m a total mama’s girl.
My father tries to lighten the room by saying, “You know what? You’ll probably get sick of us in no time. Our family is quite big.”
Kyro chuckles softly, “I look forward to meeting them.”
When dinner ends, my mother decides to show Kyro my baby book in the living room. I sit next to him and watch him flip through the book.
“Adorable…” He softly chuckles, looking through.
Then his eyes narrowed at a picture of Izzy and I before she transitioned.
“Who’s this boy? Childhood crush?” He is not joking.
I chuckle, “No, that’s Izzy before transitioning.”
He looks at her again and nods.
After we finished the album, I kissed my mom and dad goodbye and run to my room to take my dress off. Kyro follows me into the room, and I try to stop myself from asking him about his parents.
“Ask me tomorrow. Not today.” Kyro states out of nowhere.
I’m taken aback by his statement. “What?”
“My parents, I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.”
I didn’t want to press him for answers, so I just nodded.
Fifteen Years Ago
Kyro
Ivan kicks a soccer ball at me. “If you want to make money. I could find you work with us,” Ivan says in Russian.
“You want my mother to kill me? She says you guys are evil. She escaped Russia because of the Bratva.” I reply in Russian.
“Evil? It depends on who is telling the story. These governments are all the same. They make billions on getting people hooked on drugs, but then crucify mobs for selling them. If the government could tax prostitutes, it would be legal too. It is only illegal when the government can’t profit from it,” Ivan scoffs. “Hey, take this.” Ivan passes me a pocketknife.
“What for?” I took the knife.
“If that fucker tries something again.”
I laugh. “True, I’ll see you at school tomorrow. I got to get home, but let me know how soon I can start.”
A handshake later and I’m on my way home. When I walk into the house, I can smell my mother’s cooking.
“Kyro! Dinner is ready.” My mother, Kalina, calls out in Russian. My father was not home again. He will probably come in later tonight.
My mother made ‘Okroshka; ’a soup that mom used to make a lot when we were in Russia. We came to America when I was six years old. Mom was happy for a while. I didn’t meet my father until I came to the States. My father was a soldier who impregnated my mother and forgot about her once he came back to the States. When we arrived, he welcomed us into his home, but my mother didn’t know they dishonorably discharged him due to drug addiction. All he wanted was a woman to cook, clean, and fuck. I was the baggage that came with the deal.
For four years, he beat, raped, and tortured my mother. She couldn’t speak the language, so it was hard to find work. We were trapped under his control.
“Where’s my coke?!” A loud bang hits the front door. I can hear my father’s drunken voice.
He’s back early today, and he’s already drunk. If he weren’t a trust fund baby, we would be on the streets. He can’t keep a job to save his life.
