I had just gotten the keys to my new house when my mom, without telling me, lent it to a relative to "store a few things." When I found out, there was an urn sitting in the middle of my living room. I confronted my uncle. "How am I supposed to live here?" I demanded. "My neighbors are already filing complaints!" My uncle marched over and banged on the neighbor's door. "What are you complaining about? The old man can't even talk! How is he bothering you?" I was losing my mind. "This is my new house!" My uncle retorted with conviction, "We know it's a new house, that's why we put him here! We have kids at home, you know." "Besides, the old man had a blessed life. He's bringing you good luck!" My mom chimed in from the sidelines. "They didn't have a choice. You're not married; the house is sitting empty anyway." I changed the locks that same day. But the next day, when I opened the door, the urn was still there. They had made a copy of the key. 1 At 3:00 AM, I pressed "send" and finally exhaled. After pulling three consecutive all-nighters, I had secured the five-million-dollar contract. I was exhausted, sure. But thinking about the commission coming my way, and the new house I had meticulously chosen... even the air tasted sweet. I rubbed my stiff neck, clocked out, and carefully packed the contract and the flash drive. The down payment on that house, in a prime location, had drained every cent of my savings. Countless nights working until I wanted to vomit—it was all so I wouldn't have to live in a cluttered storage room anymore. No more of my brother's deafening video games. No more of my mom's constant scolding and complaining. I finally had a walk-in closet of my own. Finally, I had a sense of belonging. A home. My phone screen lit up. "Claire, are you asleep?" Then, a barrage of voice messages dropped like bombs, the longest one a full 60 seconds. "Mom is dying of this heat! Is this weather trying to steam us alive?" "Oh, look at you now, living comfortably." "Working in the big city, sitting alone in an air-conditioned room, living like a princess! You can't even check on your parents? Do you even have a heart?" I swallowed the irritation rising in my chest and replied patiently. "Mom, didn't I install an AC unit for you and Dad?" "So what? Electricity isn't free! I raised you, put you through school, just so you could enjoy life? Every time I turn on that AC, my heart bleeds! Unlike you, spending money like water! Ungrateful wretch!" "Listen to my voice, my throat is smoking dry!" Another 60-second rant. I tapped "transcribe to text." Your dad and I are old bones, what do we need AC for? Save that money for your brother; he needs to get married one day. You have no conscience. I shoved the phone into my bag, too tired to argue. In her eyes, the $500 I sent home every month was mandatory tribute. Buying a house for myself was unfilial. turning on my AC was a sin. The night wind was cool, but it couldn't blow away the suffocation in my chest. My eyelids were heavy. Three all-nighters had pushed me to my limit. But the thought of returning to my own little nest, taking a hot shower, and sleeping in a clean bed made it all worth it. I quickened my pace, keys ready in hand. When I pushed open the door to my new house, I thought I had walked into the wrong apartment. In the center of the living room, electric red candles flickered eerily. Between them sat a black urn. Plates of offerings were arranged in front of it. And from a speaker somewhere, the "Great Compassion Mantra" was looping on repeat. When did my living room become a funeral parlor? Besides me, only my mom had a spare key. My blood ran cold. I felt dizzy, barely able to stand. Mom must have lent the key to someone without telling me! I dialed her number with trembling hands, practically roaring into the phone: "Mom? What the hell is in my house? Who put that there?" Her voice came through, calm and justified. "What's the fuss? Your Uncle Dave's father-in-law just passed away. They borrowed your place to keep him for a few days. What's the big deal? Your house is empty anyway." "Why are you yelling in the middle of the night? Are you trying to kill me?" My limbs went numb. My heart pounded so hard I had to lean against the wall. "A few days? I just got the keys! How can you let them put an urn in here without asking me? How am I supposed to live here?" "This is my house!" "Tsk, why are you so immature?" Her tone turned sharp. "What's yours is mine! I gave birth to you!" "Besides, we're all family. What's wrong with helping out? You're a girl, thirty years old, no boyfriend. Who's this house going to eventually? Your nephew, obviously." "So what if your uncle stores some things there now? Leaving it empty is a waste. You have no sense of family." My vision went black with rage. My blood pressure spiked. "Storing a dead man's urn in a living person's new home? Mom, I risked my life working for this house! It's not a morgue!" But the next second, she hung up on me. I tried calling back, shaking, but only got the busy signal. Just then, the neighbor across the hall, Mrs. Johnson, peeked out. "Hey, young lady, what are you screaming about in the hallway at this hour? It's noisy!" She complained, then peered through my open door. Her face went pale. "Holy mother of... Why does your house look like a haunted house? It's the middle of the night! Are you trying to scare people to death? What is this?" 2 I turned on the lights. The living room was a disaster. My wool rug, which cost three grand, was covered in black footprints. It looked like someone had walked through a latrine—mud mixed with something yellowish and vile. The floor around the coffee table was littered with sunflower seed shells, peanut shells, shredded tissues, and cigarette butts. The trash can was overflowing, garbage scattered everywhere, the stench overwhelming. Even the plants I bought to purify the air were destroyed—leaves torn off, soil spilled all over the floor. Did they think my house was a dump? I was losing my mind. I should never have given my mom a key. I only told her about the house to make her proud. Instead, she demanded a key and lent it out to random people! My hands shook as I tried calling my mom, Susan, again. But no matter how many times I dialed, the robotic voice repeated: "The subscriber you have dialed is not available..." She had blocked me. Furious, I scrolled to find my Uncle Dave’s number. Once, twice, ten times. My fingers turned white pressing the screen. I stood amidst the trash, waiting for him to pick up. An hour later, a lazy voice answered. "Hello?" It was the middle of the night; I didn't want to make a scene. I tried to suppress my anger. "Uncle Dave, what is going on with my house?" He coughed, phlegm rattling in his throat. "Oh, that house. I just borrowed it for a bit." "Borrowed?" My voice rose uncontrollably. "I didn't agree to anything! Who did you borrow it from?" Dave sounded impatient. "You're calling me in the middle of the night for this?" "Claire, as your uncle, I have to say something. You're a thirty-year-old woman, unmarried, no kids. The house is just sitting there. The old man had a blessed life; he's adding good luck to your place. It's a great thing." "Adding luck? Would you want this luck?!" "Psycho," he muttered and hung up. When I tried calling back, I got the same busy signal. Dave had blocked me too! Standing in the garbage-filled room at 4:00 AM, I felt like my heart was going to explode from the grievance and pain. But I still had a life. I had a job. I couldn't just give up. I took a breath. I shoved everything on the table into a box and put it outside the door. I turned off the spooky music. I hid in the study. It was the only clean room left. Fighting through eye strain and exhaustion, the weight of the mortgage pressing down on me like a mountain, I worked. After three days of non-stop grinding, my temples were throbbing. As dawn broke, I sent a leave request to my boss. Mr. Shen replied with a simple "Received." I finally relaxed. I slumped onto the desk, my consciousness fading. Just as I was drifting off... BANG! BANG! BANG! A violent pounding on the door nearly gave me a heart attack. "Who is it?" My heart hammered against my ribs. I felt like I was going to die of cardiac arrest. The pounding paused for a second. Then, Dave’s rude bellowing assaulted my eardrums. "Claire Lin! Open the door! What's taking so long? Open up!" Dragging my exhausted body, I opened the door. The family of three stood there. 3 "So slow. You're in the way." Dave shoved past me roughly, nearly knocking me over. His wife, Aunt Barb, followed close behind. Their brat of a son, Little Treasure, ignored his muddy sneakers and jumped straight onto my $5,000 leather sofa. "Grandpa's house has a trampoline!" There was a pebble stuck in the tread of his shoe. As he bounced, rip. A six-inch gash appeared on the leather. I saw stars. My heart bled for the five grand. Before I could stop him, Dave went on the offensive. "Claire, look what you did! Where are the offerings I set up? And the memorial tablet? You dared to throw the old man's tablet in the trash?" His stubby finger practically poked my eye out. "Bad luck! So much bad luck! The old man's bones aren't even cold, and you disrespect him like this? Don't you respect the dead? You ungrateful wolf, did a dog eat your conscience?" Barb twisted her waist, chiming in sarcastically. "Exactly, Claire. Not to lecture you, but the old man staying here doesn't hurt you. You have to have reverence for the dead." Even my temper had limits. "Why don't you keep him at your own house? This is my home, not a funeral parlor or a cemetery!" Dave straightened his neck, self-righteous. "Our Little Treasure is only eight. If he sees an urn, he'll have nightmares. Can you take responsibility if he gets scared?" I pointed at the pile of junk on the floor. "What about my nightmares? I'm human too!" "You?" Barb rolled her eyes, her tone dripping with mockery. "You're thirty without a boyfriend. Your horoscope must be too 'hard.' The old man being here might suppress the bad luck. Maybe you'll finally get lucky in love." My lips trembled. The lack of sleep had left me weak; I didn't even have the strength to stand. Seeing my silence, Dave thought he had won. He pulled some old newspapers from his pocket and spread them on the floor. I watched him warily. "What are you doing?" I had a bad feeling. He lit the newspaper. "Your uncle is cleaning up your mess. You offended the old man; you have to apologize." "You went to college, don't you understand basic manners?" The smell of burning ink and paper filled the room. The air, already stale, became suffocating. The smoke triggered the alarm. BEEP—BEEP—BEEP— The smoke detector screamed, red light flashing. Within three minutes, the property manager and two security guards were pounding on the door. "Miss Lin, what's going on?" "Are you trying to summon the fire department?" The manager scanned the room, his impatient gaze landing on me. "Even if you need to do... things... watch the time. Is this a place to burn paper money?" I was at my breaking point. I hadn't done anything, yet I was getting scolded. Before I could answer, Barb sat on the floor and started wailing. "Manager! You have to help us! My poor father died of cancer, and we children just wanted to show some filial piety, burn some paper money... but this niece has a heart of stone! She doesn't even respect the dead!" "The old man loved her so much when he was alive! Can't we talk about feelings instead of rules?" She cried snot and tears, acting like the victim, painting me as the villain. I snapped. "Manager, I didn't light the fire." "This is a serious fire hazard. Shouldn't these people be arrested?" Dave’s voice shot up. "Arrested? Claire Lin, do you have any respect for your uncle?" "Your mother was right, you really are unfilial!" The manager realized Dave's family was trouble. "Miss Lin, your situation is... complicated." "But regulations strictly forbid open fires in high-rise buildings." "If you really need to pay respects, go to the empty lot in the suburbs." "Why should we go downstairs?" Barb sat heavily on my sofa, tearing the gash even wider. She grabbed the manager's sleeve, her voice turning pathetic. "Manager, you have parents too. Have a heart. The old man just left us, we're grieving... we just wanted to do something for him..." Little Treasure joined in, hugging the manager's leg. "Uncle, my grandpa died, waaah..." The fake crying was obvious. The next second, he wiped his snot on the manager's pants. Cornered by the family of three, the manager's face darkened. He started backing away, signaling me with his eyes. Seeing this, Dave slowly stomped out the embers on the floor. He deliberately ground his heel into my floorboards, leaving black marks. "See? No fire. What's the panic?" "Exactly. Calling property management for nothing. Acting like we're arsonists." Barb rolled her eyes. "Claire, you're an adult. Can you handle things more maturely?" The manager seized the out. "Right, right, fire's out. No problem, no problem." He turned to me, whispering. "Miss Lin, they're family. Bear with it. The old man just died, emotions are high. Just... make sure they don't light any more fires and don't disturb the neighbors." 4 The smell of smoke, sandalwood, and burnt paper hung in the air. Even hiding in the study with the soundproof door closed, I could hear Little Treasure's shrieks and Barb's grating laughter. I was too tired. Days of overtime meant I had zero energy to fight this family. I grabbed my phone and booked a nearby hotel. If I stayed, I would go insane. At 3:00 AM, the hotel bed was unfamiliar, but quiet. I slept my first peaceful night since getting the house. The next day, I took leave and waited until noon. Knowing Dave, they would be out dropping Little Treasure at school. I called a locksmith and a cleaning crew. We cleaned and sanitized the entire house. "Miss, should we throw all this away?" The cleaner pointed to the pile: urn, incense burner, offerings. "Throw it all! Everything!" Locks changed. Floors polished. The scratch on the sofa remained, but the ash and trash were gone. Looking at my renewed home, I exhaled. Changed the locks. They can't get in now. All afternoon, my nerves were tight. By evening, my phone was strangely quiet. No abuse from Dave, no sarcasm from Mom. I thought I was safe. I changed the locks and didn't give Mom a key. The next day, I dragged my tired body home from work. I tried to put my key in the lock. It wouldn't go in. I looked up, checked the number. It was my house. But the lock had been changed. Ding— The elevator opened. Dave and his family walked out carrying shopping bags. Little Treasure held a new toy. Seeing me at the door, Dave smirked triumphantly, dangling a set of keys. "What are you doing standing there? You're in the way." Blood rushed to my head. If I could, I would strangle him right there. "Why did you change my lock? Who gave you the right?" He looked impatient. "I talked to your mom. She agreed." I dialed my mother, shaking. This time, she answered. Her tone was nonchalant. "Claire, what now?" Hearing her voice, thirty years of grievance, anger, and exhaustion exploded. I couldn't hold it back. I screamed into the phone. "Mom! For years, I've been your ATM! Three thousand a month! Saving for my brother's wedding, for your retirement! I work myself to death, never taking sick days, just to buy a house!" My voice choked. "Back home, two bedrooms. You and Dad have one, brother has one! Me? I sleep in the storage room! For thirty years, I haven't had a proper bedroom! Now I finally have my own house, and you let Uncle put an urn in it? This is my home! I bought it with my blood and sweat! It's not yours!" Tears flooded down my face. I squatted in the hallway, sobbing. Silence on the other end. Mom ignored my breakdown completely. "We're family. Taking care of each other is what we do. You forgot? When you were little, your uncle bought you candy. You can't forget your roots." Candy? That fifty-cent piece of hard candy? Because of one piece of candy, I owe him a million-dollar house? I didn't want to talk to her anymore. I had only one thought. Call the police! I couldn't out-argue my elders. But Dave changing my locks and trespassing? That's illegal! The police arrived quickly. In front of the officers, I pointed at Dave. "Officer, they are trespassing, squatting, and changed my locks! Here is my property deed!" "And the neighbors have complained multiple times about the noise!" Dave immediately put on his "honest peasant" face, rubbing his hands together. "Officer, look at this mess, it's a misunderstanding." "Claire and I... I'm her uncle. This is a family matter." "My father-in-law just passed. We just wanted a place to keep him for a couple of days while the tomb is being built. You know how it is with customs, moving graves is a big deal. Just a few days." "We're family. Can't we talk this out?" Barb played the victim too. "Yes, Officer, it's not easy for us. The old man is gone; he needs a resting place, right?" "Once the tomb is ready, we'll move him immediately." The officer looked at me, then at Dave, and shook his head helplessly. "Miss, this is a domestic dispute. We suggest you resolve it within the family." "But they changed my locks—" "This... since you are relatives, it's hard to define. Maybe try mediation?" After thirty minutes of mediation, the police left.
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