Ilya finds an odd picture of Shane in a photo album at one point. He's maybe three, he's sitting on the massive purple sofa that Ilya has discovered the Hollanders owned when Shane was born. He's frowning, red-cheeked and he's got a strange plastic case on his thumb.
"Yuna," he says, shifting his elbows on the table to point at it. "What is this on his hand? Was broken?"
Shane's head snaps up from across the table, where he's pretending that Photo Album Time is very boring to him and not worth paying attention to. He hasn't scrolled on the article he's pretending to read for over five minutes.
"I never broke a bone as a kid," he says, brows furrowed. "Not until U13, when that fucking kid from Guelph--"
Yuna and Shane both inhale quickly through their noses in what Ilya has learned to recognize as a moderative measure, lest they start yelling about something that everyone else on Earth has forgotten about.
"No," Yuna says, once her face looks a little less intense. "No, it wasn't broken. It was this...contraption that the dentist gave us to correct his thumb-sucking. He was so mad about it, we only put it on him a few times."
"Oh, Jesus," Shane mutters, eyes going back to his phone.
"Aw," Ilya says. "Poor baby Shane." He taps his finger against one little red cheek and laughs. "You really do look so mad, sweetheart. How did you make him stop?"
"Hmm...you know, I don't remember," Yuna sighs, tilting her head. "I guess he just stopped by himself eventually. Do you remember, Shane?"
"No," Shane says, shortly.
"Of course, that didn't get rid of the oral fixation," Yuna sighs, adjusting her reading glasses as she flips the page. "The things you used to chew on, Shane. Pens and straws and--"
"Mom," Shane snaps, while Ilya vibrates beside him. "Can we not?"
"I was afraid to give him popsicles because I thought he would gnaw on the sticks until he got a splinter in his stomach."
"Well, honey, it's true! And you did outgrow it eventually, so it's not as if you have to be embarrassed."
"Oh, you did?" Ilya says, shoulders shaking. "You outgrew the, uh, oral fixation?"
"Mm. Excuse me." Ilya stands from the table and sweeps out onto the back porch, though the sliding door does nothing to prevent the sound of his guffaws from floating back into the kitchen.
"You know," Yuna says, "I'm just going to assume that this is some kind of language barrier thing--"
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