Winner Without Love
Well, Jake, that’s that, said Maureen, setting her cup down on the saucer with a small click, which sounded a little ceremonial, even to herself. Life can go on now.
Mom, you say that like you just won a chess tournament.
Didnt I?
My son stared out the window. Early Marchgray, wet, with freezing rain streaking the glass. Just depressing. I followed his gaze and saw nothing but a drab backyard, muddy and slushy.
Jake, Im asking you: didnt I?
Mom, she just left. With a single suitcase. Not sure whats worth celebrating here.
Thats exactly whats worth celebrating. Just one suitcase. She came with nothing, left with nothing. Fairs fair.
He turned. I braced myself for anger, or maybe exhaustion, but his eyes were unreadable. There was something there I preferred not to examine too closely.
Erin put her own money into this apartment, he said quietly.
The deeds in my name. I gave it to you, not to her.
I know what the paperwork says.
Then whats the issue?
He stood, grabbed his jacket from the hook. I noticed he hadnt finished his slice of apple piethe one I baked that morning, on purpose, for the occasion. The half-eaten pie sat on the table.
Im heading out, he said.
Where to?
Somewhere.
The door closed gently behind him. Not a slam. As if he spent his whole life trying not to make noise, break anything, or cause a fuss. I looked at the pie, then took a fork and finished his piece. The apples were a bit tart, but I liked them that wayhomestyle.
I sat in the kitchen of this apartment, the same one Id lived in for thirty-seven years, thinking that maybe, just maybe, everything would be all right now.
Im Maureen Adams, sixty-two, slight, maybe even delicate, with silver hair forever pinned in a tidy knot at the back of my neck. My Social Security was decent for Columbus, Ohio. Id worked as an accountant for forty years, knew my numbers. So, five years ago, when Jake brought home Erin, the new girlfriend, I could spot a scheme at a hundred yards.
Erin was small-townthree hour drive away. Shed come to go to Ohio State, stayed after, worked, rented a room near some architecture firm. Shy, plain, wore her long hair in a braid, always looked just a bit past you when she spoke. I read people, and over the first family dinner, I read Erin: she was gunning for the apartment.
Jake insisted otherwise. Jake insisted he loved her. Jake rarely insisted on anything at all, but when he did, I filtered it through what I already believed, and the answer always matched my intuition.
They lived three years in this apartment, the one I signed over to Jakeon advice from my lawyer friendwhen he turned twenty-eight. Just so thered be no property disputes in case of a divorce. At the time, I wasnt thinking of divorce. I was thinking of caution. Ive always been cautious.
Erin put up new curtains (which I thought was pushy), swapped out my old dishware (which I thought was unnecessary), cooked dinner for us twice a week (which always left me with some vague sense of discomfort I couldnt quite define, even as I ate and thanked her politely).
Erin did a kitchen renovation. With her own money, so she kept saying to Jakebut never to me. I found out once everything was already installed, and the walls newly striped. I pursed my lips at her white cabinets and light-blue walls.
Mrs. Adams, you dont like it? Erin could always be direct. I never liked that.
Oh, sweetheart, its very nice, I saidthe tone making “very nice” sound like “awful.” We both knew it, but Erin said nothing. She could always stay silent in those moments, when I half-hoped for a fight just to justify my own righteousness.
They divorced in their fourth year. The reasons were all real and all incomplete. Jake drifted farther and farther away. Erin tried to talk, explain, plead. Hed nod and turn the game on. Jake told me, every couple of days, how bad it was getting. I finally told him straightsomething I do when it suits me.
Jake, neither of you can live like this anymore.
Maybe itll work itself out.
It never does. Itll only get worse.
Then came the lawyer, the papers, this kitchen scene, the apple pie, and Erin leaving with a rolling gray suitcase. Erin walked to the cab without looking back.
At the window, as I watched her leave, I thought: there goes the one who lost. And it made me feel lighter, relieved, like a fever breaking after a long illness.
Jake Adams was thirty-four, a civil engineer for a building company, good pay, never boastful. I was quietly proud, with that possessive, parental pride, a little bit of love and a little bit of something else I can barely name. Id raised him by myself from the time his father left when Jake was eight. Since then, it was just us in the worldwhich always felt right to me.
When he was nineteen, I realized Jake was good at being alone. Not in a positive wayhe didnt know how to fight for himself, demand, or even get angry out loud. He just agreed or went quiet. I told myself that meant he was well-mannered, and let it rest.
After the divorce, he lived alone for a month. Then one day, he called and said hed met Megan.
Where?
At work, at a team happy hour.
And who is Megan?
Good woman. Want to meet her?
We met at a cafe, not at homemy first indication something had changed, though I barely realized. Megan was seven years younger than Jake, twenty-seven, working at an ad agency, dressed bright and crisp, completely sure of what she wanted from the waiter, the menu, and (apparently) life.
Mrs. Adams, she said, shaking my hand over the table, as though she was the one who invited me. Ive heard a lot about you.
From Jake?
From Jake.
I hope only good things, I smiled my best smile.
A variety, she said plainly and studied the menu.
Something sharp jabbed just below my ribs. I blamed it on a draft from the front door.
Megan was prettynot like Erin, quietly and almost apologetically, but with the bold assurance of women who know theyre pretty. Dark hair, dark eyes, lipstick precise, and her silence held a different quality. Erins silences were about patience; Megans were about judgment.
Four months later, they got married. Jake called to tell me on a Wednesday night, during the local news.
We got married, Mom. Today.
Today?
Yeah. Please dont be upset. We didnt want a fuss.
Im not upset. Congratulations.
I hung up and sat listening to the silence for ten minutes. Then I watered the African violets and went to bed.
Megan moved in a week later, bringing more boxes than seemed possible for someone her size. The hallway was full. The next day, I found Erins curtains already gone, replaced with heavy dark green ones. The living room felt like a study.
Megan, what happened to the old ones?
Trash, Megan called from the kitchen.
They were almost new.
Mrs. Adams, they werent my taste.
After that, there was nothing else worth saying. I realized this and stayed silent for the first timereally silent, not just waiting for my turn to object.
At first, I kept visiting often. Megan didnt chase me away, but she managed to create a climate where I didnt want to linger. She never left the room when I arrived, but never offered coffee, closed her laptop, or feigned interest. Quick answers, cold, dismissive glancesI started to feel like a nuisance in the apartment Id given my son.
That emptiness was new. Unpleasant.
When I was there, Jake got even quieter, pouring tea and nodding, glancing at his wife with a special care that made me uncomfortable. Not cautionfear, but I wouldnt say it aloud.
In October, Megan changed the locks. Jake called:
Mom, we changed the locks. If you want to come by, just let me know so one of us can be here.
Why?
Megan thinks its safer.
Safer from what?
A long, awkward pause. I got the message. “People do it all the time now,” he managed.
Id carried that apartment key for twenty yearsfirst as the owner, then the mother who was always welcome. That night, I took it off my ring and put it in my dresser drawer. Its still there.
Every New Years, the party was always at my place. For twenty years Id cooked, fried fish, and put up the tree in the corner, just like my mother did. Some traditions you keep.
But in November, Megan told Jake, who told me:
Were spending New Years at Megans parents in Chicago this year.
Chicago?
Thats where her family is.
And me?
Mom, you know, we cant be everywhere.
So I spent New Years Eve alone. Set the table for myself, opened the champagne at 11:30, watched the TV ball drop, drank my glass, and washed the dishes. I was in bed by one because there wasnt anything else to do.
Next morning, I called Jake. He answered after the third ring, his voice sleepy and happy.
Happy New Year, Mom.
Happy New Year, Jake. How are you two?
Great. It was fun. Ill call you back later, okay? Megans still asleep.
Sure, son, of course.
Sure, I said, but it kind of meant “never.” Not that he heard it.
In February, Megan showed up at my place, unannounced, around noon, dressed to the nines and in heels. I opened the door and she said:
Hi, Mrs. Adams. May I come in?
Come on, I managed. Tea?
Sure.
We sat in my kitchen, Megan scanning the place like she might renovate at any moment. I set out cups and sliced a lemon.
Mrs. Adams, I need to say something plainly.
Go ahead.
Jake calls you every day.
He’s my son.
I get it, but every day, for an hour. It takes up our evening, interrupts our plans. Maybe less often would be better.
I poured the water, hands steady, as always.
Megan, I said, slow and measured. Jakes a grown man. He can call who he wants, when he wants.
Sure. But a grown mans primary family is his own.
Im his family, too.
Youre his mother. Its different.
We looked at each other across the table. The tea cooled. I thought, if it were Erin, shed have looked away by now. Megan didnt.
I understand, I said at last.
Good, Megan said, finishing her tea as if wed just talked about the weather.
After she left, I stood by the window for a long while. The snowbank by the curb was melting, reflecting the flat gray sky. I thought of Erin. How shed never shown up like that, never so direct, so cold.
I shoved that thought somewhere deep and heavy in my mind.
Jakes calls started coming less often. At first, every two or three days. Then once a week. I didnt bring it up, and he didnt explain. Every time, I sensed he was in a hurry, distractedMegans clear, purposeful voice in the background, like an anchors voice.
Megan did well, worked a lot, travel, new gadgets and clothesshe was a take-charge person, and her energy took up all the air around Jake, leaving nothing much for anyone else.
That spring, I stopped by their place unannounced. Jake opened the door, wearing an expression that told me everything.
Mom, you know, you should really call.
I was nearby. Just stopped in.
Nearby?
Jake, I live ten minutes away.
Megans working. From home. Cant be disturbed.
Im here to see you, son.
He let me in. We sat in the kitchen. Megan never came out. After half an hour, I left. Standing by the elevator, I realized that was probably the last time Id pop by unannouncednot because he asked, but because I never wanted to see that look on his face again.
Summer passed quietly. I tended my tomatoes and cucumbers at the community garden, took my neighbors grandkids to a lake up north. I had no grandchildren of my own; Megan always said, Not yetcareer is first, theres time. I didnt argue. Id learned not to argue with what couldnt be changed.
In September, something happened that Id later call an accident, though in a city like Columbus, there arent many true accidents.
I was coming home from Kroger on Main Street, hands weighed down with bags, moving slow, watching my step. And then, suddenly, I saw Erin, standing in front of a small office, finishing up a phone call. She wore a navy blue coat I didnt recognize. Her hair, short now, barely brushing her shouldersno more braid. She was laughingfree, genuine, not at all the way she used to, with that careful, almost guilty smile.
I stopped cold on the sidewalk, unsure what to do. I should have just kept walking.
Erin noticed me. She pocketed her phone, came over.
Mrs. Adams.
Erin, I said, surprised I used the more affectionate toneone Id never used with her before.
You look well, Erin said. It was the kind of thing you say when someone doesnt, but you want to be politeI knew, because I used that phrase too much myself.
And you look well, I replied. True, no caveat.
Erin looked different than Id remembered. Just different. More certain in her posture, in her eyes. She didnt look away anymore.
Do you work here? I nodded at the office.
I run the place, she said simply. I started my own business. Home design.
Your own business?
Yes.
Howd you get the money? I blurted, instantly regretting it.
She didnt take offense, or if she did, didnt show it.
Worked two jobs for three years. Company by day, freelanced at night. I saved up. Bought a condo last year. Small, but mine.
The grocery bags felt heavier. Physically heavier.
Bought a condo?
One-bedroom, out on Highway 161. Its enough.
You live alone?
I do. I like it.
We stood in silence a few seconds. Down the block, kids were laughing.
Erin, I began, not really knowing what I wanted to say.
Mrs. Adams, she interrupted gently. Ive got a meeting in ten.
Of course.
Take care.
You too.
At the door, she turned and gave me a looknot angry, not bitter, just peaceful, as someone who decided long ago not to keep a fight going.
I walked home, put away the groceries, washed my hands, made soup, ate, did the dishes, and sat by the window.
She bought a condo. On Highway 161. Runs her own business. A couple years of work, not overnightslowly, step by step.
I sat, staring out at the street, thinking about what Id won. The apartment was mine. My son was too. Erin left with nothing.
Except now my son calls once a week. Sometimes every ten days. And New Years will be at Megans parents againshed already told me.
Erin owns a condo on Highway 161.
I got up, lay on the couch, and shut my eyes. Not sleeping, just lying there as dusk slid across the backyard.
In October, Megan told Jake she wanted to move to Chicago. Columbus was too small, her company needed her at headquarters, she couldnt pass up the promotion.
Jake called me after Sunday lunch.
Mom, we need to talk.
Go ahead.
Megan and I we might move.
Where?
Chicago. Her job.
I was silentfor a long time, longer than usual.
When?
Not sure yet. Were discussing. I wanted you to hear it from me.
Thanks for telling me.
Mom, dont be like that.
Like what?
Cold.
Jake, Im just listening.
He was quiet.
Mom, maybe we could rent the apartment out while were gone. You could check in on the tenantsyoure close by.
What he meant was, Keep an eye on the place. The place where I wasnt welcome, watching over strangers where I no longer had a key.
Ill think about it, I said.
Thats all I ask. And Mom, Chicagos just a quick flight or five hours on the highway. Well come back to visit.
Sure, son.
Sure again meant never, but he didnt pick up on it.
November got cold early. I went to the farmers’ market for pickles and ran into Gloria, an old work friend. We got tea and sat together for an hour.
Gloria told me about grandkids, the cottage, her husbands health. Then she asked,
So howre you? Hows Jake? Is the new wife settling in?
Shes settled in, I said. They’re planning to move to Chicago.
Oh. Taking you with them?
No.
She shook her head, her silence saying everything that needed to be said.
Dont you ever regret it?
What?
With Erin. She was a quiet one.
Quiet, yeah. But she had her eyes on the apartment.
Is that what you believe?
I put my cup down.
I saw her last week.
And?
She bought her own condo. Opened her own business. Shes doing fine.
Gloria held my gaze. Calm, no pity, just waiting. I couldnt hold her look.
So maybe she wasnt after the apartment at all, Gloria said gently.
Gloria, dont.
Im just saying.
You dont know. You didnt see her, didnt see the way she looked at things, acted.
Maybe. I just see you here, alone in November, doing your own shopping. Jakes headed to Chicago.
I walked home instead of taking the busneeded to keep moving, as though the sidewalk itself gave me some direction.
December brought the first snow. I trimmed the Christmas tree alone. Unpacked boxes of old ornaments from the closet. Plugged in the lights. The tree looked as beautiful as ever. It always did.
Jake called on the twenty-thirdtheyd visit on the thirty-first.
Not for long, he clarified. Morning only. Megan wants to spend New Years with her folks.
I see.
Mom, cmon.
Jake, Im glad youll be here. Ill bake you an apple pie.
They arrived at eleven a.m. Megan wore a designer coat and carried champagne and chocolates for meset them on the table, matter-of-fact. Jake hugged me. We had tea. Megan spent most of the time on her phone, not rudejust busy. Some urgent text exchange.
Megan, pie?
No, thank you. Im not eating carbs.
Jake?
Sure, Mom.
He ate one slice, then another. I watched him and thought, maybe this is one of our last mornings like this in this kitchen. Because, Chicago. Because, Megan. Life doesnt move the way you plan it.
By twelve-thirty, they left. Megan stopped at the door, looked at me for a moment. I couldnt read her expressionmaybe nothing, maybe everything.
Mrs. Adams, Megan said. Youre a great hostess. The pies delicious.
Thank you.
She nodded and left. Jake gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.
Bye, Mom.
Bye, son.
The door closed. I cleared the table, wrapped up the rest of the pie, did the dishes, and turned the TV onnot really watching.
I spent New Years Eve alone, for the second year in a row. Opened my small bottle of champagne at midnight, toasted the TV, drank, and admired the Christmas lights. They glowed quietly, for no one.
In January, Jake announced theyd move in March. The apartment would stay empty; theyd be back once in a while. I nodded into the phone, as if he could see it.
February was a blurgrocery shopping, cooking, TV, Gloria now and then. I got a haircut, just a trim, still fixed my bun the same way. Once I helped my neighbor sort her basement.
In early March, while the snow still lingered but was definitely giving up, I called Erin.
I still remembered her number. Numbers have always been my strong suitaccountants memory.
It rang for a long time. I almost hung up. Then,
Hello.
Hi, Erin. Its Maureen Adams.
A quiet pause. Not hostile, just a pause.
Good evening, Mrs. Adams.
Good evening. I wanted to ask if youd meet with me?
Another pause. I looked out my window at the slushy yard. Snow melting fast.
Why? Erin asked, not rudely, just straight. She was always straight.
I just wanted to talk. Ill tell you in person.
A long, long silence. I thought shed say no, and shed be right.
All right, Erin said. Saturday, if you like. That coffee shop on Main?
Sure.
Noon.
Noon, I repeated. Thank you, Erin.
Youre welcome.
I arrived fifteen minutes early and picked a table by the window. Ordered tea and watched people out enjoying a real thaw, some without hats, as though spring might come early.
Erin came right at twelve, navy blue coat, her hair curled a little in the wet air. She saw me, nodded, took off her coat, and sat.
Hi.
Hi, Erin. Thanks for coming.
What did you want to say?
I lifted my cup, set it down, picked it up again.
I just wanted to say I was wrong, I said. About quite a few things. Not everything, but a lot.
Erin looked me in the eye, steady and calm.
I judged you before I even knew you. Assumed the worst, before youd done anything. That was unfair.
She said nothing.
I thought you wanted the apartment, that you didnt love Jake, that you were calculating.
Do you still believe that?
No, I said. And saying so was hard, but true. No. I saw you in the fall, outside that office. You were laughing, and for the first time I realized you were just someone who wanted a home and a family. Like anyone.
Erin looked down, watching a pigeon hopping through the puddles beyond the glass.
Mrs. Adams, she said gently, Im glad youre saying this, I really am. But I dont know what to do with it.
I dont expect you to do anything.
Then why?
Because I had to say it. For my own sake, more than yours.
She studied me. There was neither pity nor pride in her gazesomething else, something I couldnt name.
Hows Jake? Erin asked.
Moving to Chicago. Megans got a job there now.
I see.
Shes different, I said. Not better or worse. Just different.
Better or worse?
I put my teacup down.
I dont know, I answered honestly. Maybe the most honest thing Id said in years.
She almost smiledjust a twitch of her mouth, not unkind.
Can I get you anything? I offered. A pastry or something?
No, but thank you.
She reached for her wallet, and I said,
Ill cover it.
No, really
Come on, Erin. Please.
She let me. Got her coat, her purse. Paused.
Mrs. Adams, Erin said. Im not hurt anymore. Not for a long time. Thats just something I want you to know.
Im glad.
But not for youfor me. I just wanted you to understand: Im not bitter. Not because you were right, just because its easier that way. For myself.
I nodded. For the first time in ages, I couldnt think of a thing to say.
Take care, Erin said.
You too, dear.
She left, and through the coffee shop window I saw her walk down the street, steady and unhurried in that navy coat. She stopped at the corner, checked her phone, then rounded the block and disappeared.
I paid the check, put my coat on, and stepped outside. The air smelled of March and melting snowmy favorite scent since childhood. March smelled like possibilities, I always thought.
I walked down Main, thinking about the daythree years agowhen Erin left with her little suitcase. I watched her walk to the cab, thinking Id won.
But Erin had walked steady, no hurry, no glancing back. At the time I called it dignity in defeatwhich made no real difference. Now I wondered if she already knew something I didntmaybe where she was headed, not just what she lost.
I reached home, hung up my coat, made tea.
Outside, the March snow was almost gone; a broom someone forgot in November poked out of the slush near the steps. I caught myself just looking, not thinking much of anything at all.
Tea in hand, I wrapped both cold palms around the cup.
There it is, victoryapartment untouched, son in Chicago, traditions replaced, locks changed, one daughter-in-law gone, another living her determined, laughing life in a condo of her own.
I had sense enough to recognize the final balance. When you do numbers all your life, thats what you seethe bottom line.
And today, the bottom line looks like this: I sit at the kitchen table, alone.
Not because theres no one to call. Theres Gloria, theres my neighbor, theres my son, just far away. Alone because the house is empty and that emptiness is normal nowI cant remember the last time someone popped in for no reason.
Erin used to. Shed bring over hand pies from that bakery near the market, the one that closed a couple years back. “Mrs. Adams, these are cabbageI remember you like those.” Id eat them and think about her calculating nature.
I finished my tea, washed my mug, wiped my hands on the dish towel with embroidered birdsthe one from the state fair five years ago.
Then I called Jake. Not for any reason. Just because.
Mom? Everything okay?
Fine, Jake. How about you two?
Were okay. Just packing, so much stuff. How are you?
Im good. Just wanted to call.
Oh, all right. Hey, Ill call later, were buried in boxes here.
Thats fine, sweetheart.
You sure youre okay?
I am. Take care.
Thanks, Mom. Talk later.
I set my phone down. Outside, the broom poked out of the last grimy snow bank. Quiet.
I went into the living room, pulled out my old photo album. Flipped it open.
Jake, eight, holding a fishing rod at the lake, so dead serious. Meyoung, laughingI used to laugh out loud back then. Cant remember when that changed.
Another page. Jake, twenty-eight, standing next to Erin. Theyre looking slightly off-camera, holding hands. I remember taking that photothinking then, “She holds on so he wont leave.” Now, I just see two people holding hands. Not forcefuljust together.
I put the album away. Didnt turn on the lights, just sat in the dusk.
Erin had told me, Im not hurt anymore. Im not bitternot because you were right. Because its better for me. That was the difference. Erin did things for herself. All my life, Id done everything for my son. And now hes in Chicago, and Im here with my album.
I dont cry alone. Its never been my styleI havent really cried since my husband left, aside from maybe the three days after. Then I took little Jake to a movie, and that was that.
I stood up, turned on the light, got a slice of leftover pie, ate at the kitchen window. The streetlamp laid an orange glow outsidea little cozy, almost.
I thought maybe Id call Gloria on Saturday, maybe wed go out together, or just sit somewhere. Spring was coming and Id need to check the garden, get ready to plant tomatoes. Maybe buy some seedlings at the market.
I rinsed my plate, turned off the kitchen light, went to my room.
I read before bed these days, but even after three pages of my mystery novel, I realized Id read the same passage three times, not remembering a word.
Closed the book, set it aside, darkened the room.
Erin, in her navy coat, walking slow and upright down Main. Three years before, shed walked to the cab, suitcase rolling behind, with that same steady walk. Id thought it was dignity in defeat. Now I wondered if she was thinking not about what shed lost, but where she was headed next.
Ive never known how to look forward. I always kept my eyes fixed behindto what Id kept, what Id defended, the balances Id made.
My balance now: the apartments here. My son exists. Life, somehow, continues.
Its just very quiet.
I rolled onto my side and closed my eyes.
Outside, March slipped quietly into night. By morning, maybe the last of the snow would melt. Spring always comes, whether you want it or not.
Maybe someday Ill walk by that office on Main againnot on purpose, just if I happen to. Curious if its still there, how shes doing. Probably well. Erin never left a job unfinished.
Thats something I didnt see back then. Or I saw it and called it something else.
I lay there a long time in the half-dark, listening to the silence of my apartmenta silence thats all mine, and has been, for thirty-seven years.
My neighbors cat cried through the wall, then quieted.
I lay there, thinking and not thinking, maybe buying tomato seedlings tomorrow, maybe calling Gloria, maybe visiting Chicago every now and thena quick flight, not far.
Maybe next time I run into Erin, Ill say something real. Not “take care,” not “sure.” Something true.
Or maybe I wont see her. Columbus is a small city, but not that small.
The longer I lay there, my thoughts slowed, rolling gently, almost peacefullike a streetcar coming to the last stop for the night. Theres a quiet in that last slide, not good or badjust what happens when theres nothing left to change, and you simply live with what is.
Going on is something I know how to do. No one can take that from me.
Tomorrow, Ill get up at seven, put on the kettle, and look out at March, softening into spring.
And somewhere else in this city, in a one-bedroom off 161, Erin will get up too. Earlier, maybe later. Start the kettle in her own kitchen. Look out her own window.
And both of us, in our separate rooms, will look at the same March morning. At the same melting snow. At the same sky getting lighter.
Just from different windows.
At last, I fell asleep for real.
Outsidejust the quiet of a March night.