Page 18 of Love is a Game

She’s not here to greet me with her stoic, predictable routine: “How was your flight? Did you eat?” No hug, just practicalities. “Your bed’s made up. You know where the towels are. I turned on the heating—let me know if it needs adjusting.”

It’s not like we fought that much. It wasn’t like that. It was more the distance she maintained—parenthood approached like a checklist. Fulfilling necessities.

When I was twelve, I got really sick. The culprit was a sore red bump in the soft junction of my left arm and torso, just above the slope of my burgeoning breast. I alternatively ignored it, waited for it to go away, and poked at it with gruesome interest. I never thought to mention it to Mom.

She hated doctors, mostly because of the cost. As a single mother working as a receptionist in the next town, every penny mattered. She worked for Feldman and Associates—a name that sounded grand but really just meant John Feldman, the town’s go-to lawyer for wills, real estate deals, family disputes, and small business contracts.

Mom seemed to like her job, but the pay wasn’t great. Everything was budgeted down to the last cent. She’d sit me down with her ledger and walk me through the numbers, pointing out how rising gas prices, groceries, and electricity bills meant we couldn’t afford to waste a drop of water, or even the scrape of peanut butter clinging to the bottom of the jar.

And then there was her distrust of authority—teachers, doctors, the church. She didn’t want them knowing our business. Despite—or maybebecause of—working for a lawyer, she viewed many institutions as some kind of racket.

The day I got sick, we were at Brady’s. His family farmhouse, where we often hung out with the horses and his sweet dog. Eating our body weight in freshly baked goods, since Brady’s dad made the best after-school snacks around. We got back from riding our bikes through the nearby trails. And then it happened: I fainted.

The boys were so excited by the turn of events. When I came to, Brady quickly claimed credit for grossing me out to the point of passing out, evidencing his scraped shin from a failed pogo stunt. Meanwhile, Tuck wanted to know if fainting was the same as a near-death experience, and asked if I’d seen a flaming-winged angel like the ones inDragon Ball Z.

Brady’s mom clocked my high fever, and flew into action. She hydrated me with orange juice, got a cold flannel to my forehead, and drove me straight home. I remember her silhouette in the doorway, her urgent voice as she explained what happened to Mom, as I stumbled inside, the world warped behind a veil of heat and delirium.

And this moment, returning to this empty house, is like reviving all those symptoms. There’s a frayed, opaque edge to my vision and an unpleasant sensation of something festering inside me, just like that boil poisoning my system.

I enter the hallway, my footsteps dull against the old wood. And like every time I’ve entered this house since my grandmother passed, I wonder why her ornately carved cross still adorns the otherwise bare wall.

My mother rejected religion. Had the cross escaped her notice after all those years? Did she leave it there in deference to my Christian grandparents? Or, like me, did she submit to the sense of judgment it provides—a silent reminder of every daily fall from grace?

In the kitchen, the silence weighs heavier. The heart of the house, where families mingle over bad news and good, mundane conversations, and jubilant celebrations. But often, for us, preparing meals felt like just another chore to be tackled, alongside laundry and vacuuming.

Mom’s water glass is upended by the sink…a thin layer of condensation still clinging to the sides. The fridge door makes a soft groan as I pull it open, and the slow-reacting light flickers on a second later.

Inside, a lonely egg, a half dozen condiments. The instant coffee—always kept in the fridge, a habit she’d never explained. And low-fat milk.

I picture how my frugal mother would have carefully checked the milk’s expiry date before purchase. Never guessing that its longevity would surpass her own.

It’s all so ordinary. Yet now, infused with so much significance. These are the objects she last touched…these are the things she left behind.

I hesitate outside Mom’s bedroom, her scent hovering so strongly that it seems to steal the air out of me. The door frame tilts, stars peppering my vision so that I quickly grip the wall.

Smell is the only sense that travels directly to parts of the brain that process memory and emotions—something I learned during a branding workshop in fashion school. We went through how companies like Nike diffuse stylized aromas in their stores to make customers feel energized and connected to the brand, or to encourage people to linger and buy. A single whiff can transport you completely.

And here I am, caught in a slipstream, feeling Mom’s presence and her absence all at once.

Swirling memories of how she cared for me when that nasty boil throbbed stop-light red and made me woozy. So weak that Mom had to bathe me. She fed me soup and tucked me into bed. And despite being so sick, I relished every moment of her care.

The next day, we went to the hospital where they lanced the boil. There was no anesthesia—just a quick incision and a pain so sharp and overwhelming I screamed until my lungs burned. Mom held my hand tightly, her voice steady, trying to reassure me through my sobs. Then came the tetanus shot in the other arm, a final indignity.

When the nurse offered me a jelly bean as a consolation, I glared, too offended to accept it.

And Mom’s advice? “Penelope, pain doesn’t last forever. It feels like it will, but it won’t. And when it passes, you’ll be stronger for it.”

I slide down the wall, collapsing to the floor as my body gives way. Hot tears burn my cheeks, deep spasms rack my lungs, and ugly, rasping, howling sobs burst from the pit of my stomach.

I’m a crumpled wreck. Just like mom’s car. Just like her body. My mother is gone. Taken from me. I’ll never see her again.

I pull my knees into my chest, gasping for air, needles of driving pain hammering down on me. The onslaught rips and tears at my heart and soul, ravaging my body so that I lift my arms to my head as if to protect myself from the blows.

Then another sound comes, breaking through the concrete tide of grief.

Rushed footsteps and hushed words as he reaches my side.

“Pen! Come here.” Tuck pulls me into the wall of his chest. “Shhh, it’s okay…let it out.”

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