Chapter 2 - The Guest Room and the Golden Son
By Wednesday afternoon, the atmosphere in the apartment was stretched taut like a piano wire. Derek had spent the previous three evenings complaining bitterly about the lack of hospitality in his own home, while simultaneously boasting on the phone to his brothers about his "upgraded ride." He had taken to parking his sedan squarely across two spots in the subterranean garage, wiped down the glossy rims with a microfiber cloth every morning, and treated the vehicle like a sacred relic.
Maya said nothing. She maintained her routine with iron discipline. She cataloged historical municipal maps from 1912 by day, and by night, she served small bowls of seasoned lentils and steamed cabbage.
On Thursday morning, Derek spent an hour in the bathroom grooming his beard, splashing half a bottle of cologne onto his chest, and barking orders at Maya while she tied her shoes in the entryway.
"My mother arrives at four o'clock from the train station," Derek said, checking his gold-plated watch. "I will pick her up in the car. I expect the guest room to be spotless, fresh linens on the bed, and a full, proper dinner on the table by seven. Real food, Maya. Not your protest gruel. My mother has orthopedic joint issues and needs high-protein meals."
"Did you allocate additional funds for your mother's meals?" Maya asked softly, keeping her voice entirely neutral.
Derek’s jaw clenched. "I gave you seventy-five dollars for the month. We are fourteen days into the month. You should have at least thirty-five dollars remaining. Buy a roast."
"A three-kilo beef roast at the market currently costs forty-four dollars," Maya noted. "I have thirty-three dollars remaining in the budget. If I buy the roast, there will be zero dollars left for the next sixteen days."
"I don't care about your hysterical math!" Derek snapped, raising a finger near her face. "Figure it out! Borrow from your library friends, use your little hidden stash, do whatever you have to do! If my mother sits down to a dinner of boiled cabbage tonight, I will make sure everyone in your family knows what a disgrace of a wife you are!"
He slammed the door behind him, his shoes clicking loudly on the concrete stairs.
Maya stood in the quiet apartment for a long moment. Marmalade trotted out from behind the sofa, rubbing his orange head against her ankle with a soft purr. She reached down, patted the cat's back, and walked over to her desk.
She pulled out her personal notebook.
Diane Prescott was a woman defined by performative martyrdom. For the eight years of Maya’s marriage, Diane had never missed an opportunity to remind Maya that modern women were soft, lazy, and fiscally irresponsible. At every holiday dinner, Diane would deliver long, tedious lectures on how she had raised three successful sons while stretching every penny, baking her own bread, mending socks until they were threadbare, and never asking her late husband for luxury items.
"A real woman builds her husband's castle stone by stone," Diane was fond of saying while inspecting Maya's dusting work with a white glove. "She doesn't demand gilded spoons when iron will do."
Yet, this same woman had written a wire transfer for forty thousand dollars so her favorite thirty-two-year-old son could put low-profile competition tires on a mid-sized sedan.
Maya opened her handbag, removed the receipt from Vanguard Custom Automotive, and laid it beside her library notebook. Then she pulled out her phone and made three precise phone calls.
The first call was to Mrs. Gable, her retired neighbor from apartment 2B, who ran a small neighborhood baking business out of her kitchen. The second call was to Mr. Henderson, the chief archivist at the library, inviting him and his wife to dinner that evening. The third call was to Arthur, Derek’s elder brother, who lived three towns over and worked as a high school mathematics teacher.
"Arthur?" Maya said into the receiver, her voice sweet and warm. "I’m calling to make sure you know your mother is arriving today. We're hosting a small welcome dinner tonight at seven. I know how much your mother values family transparency, and since you haven't seen her in three months, I would love for you to join us."
"A welcome dinner?" Arthur sounded surprised. "Derek didn't mention anything to me. He usually keeps Mom to himself when she comes to the city."
"Oh, you know how busy Derek gets with his high-level corporate investments," Maya replied smoothly. "Please, come. Bring your appetite. I’m preparing something very special."
By three o'clock, Maya had transformed the guest bedroom. She laid down crisp, bleached white sheets, fluffed the pillows, and placed a small vase of dried lavender on the nightstand. She cleaned the bathroom until the chrome fixtures gleamed like silver.
Then she went into the kitchen.
She did not go to the luxury butcher shop on Fifth Street. Instead, she opened the pantry cabinet and pulled out her remaining ingredients: one bag of pinto beans, two yellow onions, four potatoes, a bag of coarse cornmeal, and a single block of lard she had purchased for ninety cents.
With methodical, practiced grace, Maya began to cook.
She mashed the boiled beans into a smooth, thick paste, seasoning them with dried chilies and sea salt. She roasted the potatoes with garlic skins until they were crispy on the outside and soft within. She mixed the cornmeal with water and salt, shaping the dough by hand into thick, rustic griddle cakes, cooking them on the hot cast-iron skillet until they bore dark, fragrant grill marks.
By six-thirty, the dining room table was set.
In the center of the table, Maya placed three distinct items: First, a small, polished brass bell that had belonged to her grandmother. Second, a beautifully framed, hand-drawn ledger sheet detailing every expense incurred in the apartment over the past fourteen days, complete with dates, receipt numbers, and running totals down to the last cent. Third, a pristine white envelope containing a single piece of folded paper.
At quarter to seven, the front door unlocked.
Derek walked in, carrying a heavy leather suitcase, followed closely by Diane Prescott. Diane was sixty-two years old, with sharp blue eyes, perfectly coiffed grey hair, and an posture that suggested she was constantly smelling sour milk. She wore a modest, sensible wool coat and low-heeled shoes—the picture of modest, frugal dignity.
"Oh, it's so dark in this hallway, Derek," Diane was saying as she stepped inside. "You really ought to tell the landlord to install higher-wattage bulbs. Wasteful to keep the halls dim when you pay high rent."
"I know, Mom," Derek said, casting a nervous glance toward the kitchen. He spotted Maya standing near the dining table, wearing a simple linen apron.
"Hello, Diane," Maya said, stepping forward with a calm smile. "Welcome to our home."
Diane offered a cool, brief cheek-kiss, her eyes immediately scanning the entry rug for dirt. "Hello, Maya. You look pale. Are you eating properly? A woman who works out of the house needs to keep her stamina up, though I still say part-time library work hardly warrants leaving the house every day."
"I manage my energy very carefully these days, Diane," Maya replied sweetly.
Just then, the doorbell rang.
Derek frowned, dropping his mother's suitcase. "Are you expecting a package at seven at night?"
"No," Maya said, walking past him to open the door. "I invited our guests."
Standing in the hallway were Mr. Henderson, the head archivist—a distinguished man in his sixties with wire-rimmed glasses—and his wife, Eleanor, a prominent local journalist for the Willowford Gazette. Behind them stood Arthur, Derek's older brother, holding a small bouquet of grocery-store carnations.
Derek went entirely rigid. "Arthur? What are you doing here?"
"Maya invited me," Arthur said, looking confused as he stepped past his brother and handed the flowers to Maya. "She said Mom was in town and that we were having a family dinner to celebrate some news."
"What news?" Diane asked, her sharp eyebrows knitting together in suspicion as she looked at Mr. Henderson and Eleanor. "Derek, who are these people?"
"This is Mr. Henderson, my senior supervisor from the city archives, and his wife, Eleanor," Maya announced clearly, welcoming them inside. "They are dear friends who appreciate accuracy, documentation, and proper accounting."
May you like
Derek’s face paled slightly, his eyes darting frantically from his mother to the dining table. "Maya, what is this? This was supposed to be a private family evening!"
"It is a very private evening, Derek," Maya said, pulling out a dining chair for Diane. "Please, everyone, sit down. Dinner is served."
