The Cost of the Golden House

Chapter One: The Hongmen Banquet in the Early Morning and the Weak Son

In a luxurious suburban colonial villa in Westchester County, New York, morning light pours into the room through the large bay windows. It was a morning as perfect as an American poster. Outside the window, glistening morning dew hung on the lawn that had been neatly mowed under the strict local homeowners association regulations. And in the bright and cozy breakfast room, the aroma of freshly brewed Arabica coffee and toasted sourdough bread fills the air. A small, beautifully framed American flag hangs on the wall, a silent reminder of the family’s long-rooted patriotic tradition here. However, the warmth of the room was completely shattered by the cold low air pressure hanging on the dining table.

Margaret is sixty-eight years old, and her figure is still as tall and unyielding as steel. She sat there quietly, holding a ceramic coffee cup in both hands, the warm liquid slowly seeping into her weather-beaten, slightly arthritic fingers. She wore a simple but elegant cashmere cardigan, and her silver hair was meticulously combed. Sitting across from her was Brenda. The thirty-five-year-old daughter-in-law wore expensive Lululemon athleisure wear—no doubt purchased with Margaret’s credit card. An arrogant and matter-of-fact sneer was twisted on Brenna’s face. She leaned over the expensive wooden dining table arrogantly, and pointed her finger with exquisite manicure directly at Margaret’s face.

“Pack your bags, Margaret,” Brenna ordered coldly, without an ounce of respect or warmth in her voice, “My mom is moving into your room today. She’s moving from Florida and needs a first-floor master bedroom, which is better for her knees. You can move into a guest room in the basement, or simply find a nursing home. We need our space.”

Margaret didn’t gasp or cry. There was almost no change in the subtle expressions on her weathered face. Slowly but surely, she placed the coffee cup back on the saucer, making a gentle “ding” sound. She completely ignored Brenna’s finger pointing at her and instead turned her sharp gaze to the man sitting at the head of the table. Trevor, her son, forty years old, suddenly took an unparalleled interest in the scrambled eggs on his plate. Wearing a starched Brooks Brothers shirt, he was getting ready for his middle-management job—a job he wouldn’t have even gotten an interview for if Margaret hadn’t made a few cold calls to an old friend. Trevor huddled in his chair, shoulders hunched, resolutely refusing to look at the woman who gave birth to him, raised him, and buried his father alone.

The silence in the room grew thicker and suffocating. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway sounded like a judge’s gavel.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Trevor?” Margaret asked calmly. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it commanded the room. This is the unique voice of a strong woman who dominated the male-dominated real estate industry for thirty years before “retiring” to enjoy her old age.

Trevor shifted uncomfortably, his face flushing. He adjusted his collar, still lowering his head, “Listen, Mom... Brenna makes a good point. Susan’s arthritis is really bad, and the humidity in Florida is killing her. The basement is fine! We installed a flat-screen TV there during the last Super Bowl. This... this is very practical. And after all, we will be raising our children here, and we need to decide on living arrangements.”

Brenna sneered triumphantly and crossed her arms, showing a winner’s attitude. She was convinced that she had won. She firmly believed that she was the queen of this 4,500-square-foot castle. She took it for granted that since Margaret was old, she must be weak and vulnerable; since she remained silent, she must be powerless.

Margaret looked long and hard at her son. She saw cowardice in his eyes, an absolute lack of backbone. Over the past five years, she had given them unlimited grace in order to keep her son by her side after her husband’s death: paying property taxes, paying utility bills, and turning a blind eye to Brenna’s overwhelming Amazon deliveries. However, then, seeing her son’s pathetic escape, the mother’s blind love finally cooled completely and turned into the pragmatic sobriety of a grown-up parent - she finally realized that her generosity had actually fostered a parasite.

“I see,” Margaret said simply. She stood up and patted the non-existent crumbs on her pants. She didn’t raise her voice or argue, she just walked out with her back to the breakfast room, the sound of her leather shoes on the hardwood floor ethereal and clear.

“See?” Brenna muttered loudly behind her, “I told you she was going to give in. She has nowhere to go. I’m going to call the moving company and throw all her old junk into the warehouse.”

Margaret heard every word. A cold, determined smile appeared on her lips. They had no idea what an unforgivable mistake they had just committed.