Chapter 2 - The House on Maple Street
The ride from JFK to our two-story brick house in Park Slope, Brooklyn, was conducted in heavy, uncomfortable silence.
Tristan and Amber sat in the back seat of the black SUV he had ordered, while I sat in the front passenger seat next to the driver. In the rearview mirror, I could see Amber staring out the window at the familiar tree-lined streets of my neighborhood with an expression of open distaste.
"It looks so dated," Amber whispered loudly enough for me to hear, gesturing toward the brownstones. "Tristan, when we sell this place, we should definitely look at buying a condo in Hudson Yards."
"We'll discuss it tonight, honey," Tristan replied smoothly, leaning over to kiss her cheek. "The property market here has held up. We should get a solid payout once the divorce settlement clears the title."
I looked out my window and said nothing.
When the SUV pulled up to the curb outside 142 Maple Street, the late afternoon sun was slipping behind the rooftops, casting long, dark shadows across the front yard. The house looked quiet, its dark wood trim and stone steps pristine.
Tristan stepped out of the vehicle, dragging his two heavy rimowa suitcases behind him. He looked up at the facade of the house he hadn't seen in three years with a fleeting moment of nostalgia before his expression hardened back into executive detachment.
"The key lockbox code is still the same, I assume?" he asked, walking up the steps.
"I didn't change it," I said, following him up the porch steps.
Amber followed behind, holding the baby securely, her designer boots clicking sharply on the stone steps.
Tristan pulled out his old key chain, inserted his key into the brass deadbolt, and turned it. The heavy oak door swung open with a quiet creak, letting out the faint smell of winter air mixed with something else—something warm, heavy, and distinct.
It was the scent of sandalwood incense, fresh lilies, and roasted sesame oil.
Tristan stepped into the foyer and froze.
"What is this?" he muttered, his brow furrowing as he looked down the hallway. "Shelby, why is it so dark in here?"
The spacious dining room—where our long mahogany dining table and velvet chairs used to sit—had been completely cleared of furniture.
In its place stood a massive, elevated wooden memorial altar.
The structure was draped in traditional white and gold silk cloth. Rows of pure white lilies were arranged in porcelain vases along both sides, their fragrance heavy in the air. Dozens of small glass candles burned quietly, casting a warm, flickering glow against the dark wood panelling of the room.
In the center of the altar sat a large, velvet-framed photograph.
In the photo, an elderly woman with silver hair, soft brown eyes, and a gentle, tired smile looked directly out at the room.
Beside the photograph sat a small ceramic bowl filled with cooked white rice, a cup of strong black coffee, and a plate of braised pork—prepared exactly the way she had cooked it for forty years.
It was an altar for the deceased.
Tristan stared at the portrait. The color drained from his face so fast it looked as if someone had drained his blood with a syringe. His jaw slackened, his eyes widening in absolute, paralyzing horror.
"Mom...?" he whispered. The word barely left his throat.
I stepped past him, my black heels clicking softly on the hardwood floor. I walked over to the altar, picked up a box of matches from a tray, and lit three slender sticks of sandalwood incense. I placed them carefully into the brass burner filled with ash at the foot of her picture.
Without turning around to face him, I spoke into the quiet room.
"You made it," I said softly.
Tristan dropped the handles of his Rimowa suitcases. They hit the floorboards with a loud, hollow thud that echoed through the quiet house.
Behind him, Amber gasped, taking a sharp step backward into the doorway, her hand covering her mouth as she looked between the glowing candles and the portrait of the woman she had never met.
"Shelby..." Tristan’s voice was shaking now, stripped entirely of the smooth, arrogant cadence he had displayed at the airport. "What... what is this? What did you do?"
"Today is the hundredth day since your mother passed away," I said, turning around slowly to face him under the warm, flickering light of the memorial candles. "In our tradition, the hundredth day is when the family gathers to mark the end of the primary mourning period. I prepared her favorite meal. I brewed her black coffee."
Tristan took a staggering step forward, his knees visibly trembling under his crisp suit trousers. He reached out a hand toward the photograph, his fingers hovering in the air as if touching the glass would make the nightmare real.
"No..." he stammered, shaking his head frantically. "No, no, no... that's impossible. She... she was sick, but she was fine! I spoke to her—"
"When?" I interrupted, my voice dropping into an icy register that cut through his panic like a scalpel. "When did you speak to her, Tristan? Eight months ago? Nine?"
"She... she was in a facility! You said she was being looked after!"
"I said she was in intensive care," I corrected him coldly, stepping closer to the edge of the altar. "I sent you six emails. I called your Singapore office twenty-two times in October when her lungs began to fail. Your assistant told me you were in private meetings in Bali and couldn't be disturbed."
Tristan fell to his knees in front of the altar.
The executive, the wealthy international manager who had strutted through JFK Airport offering his abandoned wife fifty thousand dollars to go away, collapsed onto the hardwood floor like a puppet with its strings cut. His hands pressed into the floorboards, his shoulders shaking as he stared up at his mother's smiling portrait.
Behind him, the baby began to cry—a sharp, piercing wail that broke the silence of the room.
Amber stood in the hallway, looking utterly lost, her smug confidence completely dismantled by the scene unfolding before her. "Tristan... Tristan, please, get up. This is insane. Why didn't she tell you?"
Tristan didn't hear her. Tears spilled over his eyes, tracking down his pale cheeks as he stared at the bowl of rice and the burning incense.
"Mom..." he sobbed, pressing his forehead against the edge of the wooden altar platform. "Mom... I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."
I looked down at him kneeling at my feet, feeling no satisfaction, no joy—only a profound, hollow stillness.
"She waited for you, Tristan," I whispered down to him. "Every night before she lost consciousness, she asked me if the front door had opened. She thought your flight was just delayed."
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He let out a choked, agonized cry, burying his face in his hands.
"And now," I said, stepping over to the small side table where my navy-blue document folder lay waiting, "since you're finally home... we can discuss her final wishes."
