After finishing his first day of work at the coffee shop, Shawn O'Pry was on cloud nine, just brimming with positive energy.
Although the interview had been full of blunders, the work atmosphere was surprisingly relaxed. Most importantly, a sum of one thousand five hundred dollars—a windfall that was enough to see him comfortably through the entire summer—was now sitting quietly in his bank account.
He was humming Sabrina Carpenter's "Espresso" off-key as he happily returned home. However, when he pushed open the door, he was greeted not by his mother's warm welcome, but by a thick, strange atmosphere filled with suppression and hostility.
In the living room, his mother stood pale-faced by the sofa, her hands nervously wringing a corner of her apron. And across from her, a strange woman in a cheap business-casual outfit was sitting on their sofa with her legs crossed, looking perfectly at ease.
Seven o'clock in the evening. An unwelcome guest.
"Mom?" Shawn frowned and walked in.
The woman looked up at the sound, and her small eyes swept over Shawn, a hint of undisguised contempt in her gaze.
"Oh, so this is your precious son," the woman said, her tone as greasy as a three-day-old piece of fat.
"Who are you?" Shawn threw his backpack on the floor and stood in front of his mother.
The woman stood up unhurriedly, took a work ID from her pocket, and dangled it in front of Shawn. "My name is Monica, from 'Integrity Collections'."
She pointed to a stack of documents on the coffee table. "I've been commissioned by the community hospital to discuss with your mother the matter of your recent hospital bill." She handed over a printed debt statement with the hospital's red seal on it. "It's not much, just one thousand five hundred. This will only take ten minutes of your time, is that okay?"
Shawn's mother tugged at the corner of his shirt, her eyes a little red. "Shawn, don't..."
"It's not that I won't pay," she said to Monica, her voice trembling slightly. "I just paid the rent last month, and we only have five hundred dollars left for living expenses. Could you... could you give us an extension until next month?" She even took out last month's rent receipt from a drawer, trying to prove she wasn't intentionally defaulting.
Monica looked at the receipts, but a strange smile appeared on her face. She took a step closer and carefully examined Shawn's mother's face, her gaze like someone appraising a dusty antique.
"...I was just thinking you looked so familiar," she said, slapping her hand as if in a moment of realization. "I remember now! You were... you were the campus belle of our university, right? Tsk, tsk."
"I really didn't expect this," Monica's tone was full of schadenfreude. "So many rich kids with sports cars were chasing you back then, and you didn't choose any of them. You had to pick a poor soldier. And what happened? I heard he went to Iraq to 'sacrifice himself for his country'? Serves you right. A murderer like that, his death is good riddance. And what's the result? You're left as a widow with an orphan, saddled with a pile of debt. Don't you think if you had better taste back then, you wouldn't have ended up in this situation?"
"Shut your mouth!" Shawn's mother trembled with anger. She straightened her back, and for the first time, a fire ignited in her eyes. "My husband was a hero who sacrificed himself to protect our country! He's not someone a person like you can insult!"
"A hero? Haha!" Monica laughed as if she'd heard the funniest joke in the world. "A hero who can't even let you pay your medical bills? Don't be ridiculous. In the end, he's just a useless dead man."
Just then, Shawn moved.
He didn't roar, nor did he argue. He just silently took out his wallet, pulled out a stack of crisp new bills he had just withdrawn from the bank, no less, exactly one thousand five hundred dollars.
Then, under Monica's astonished gaze, he suddenly flicked his wrist and threw the stack of money hard at Monica's face!
Slap!
The crisp sound echoed in the living room. The green bills scattered like a flock of startled butterflies, and a few even stuck to Monica's face, which was twisted in shock.
"You... you son of a bitch!" Monica clutched her face, furious.
"My mother's past is not for an old hag like you to judge," Shawn's voice was as cold as a knife. "You're about the same age as my mom, right? How come you look ten years older than her? Is your life so miserable that you have to bully women to feel a sense of existence?"
"You..." Monica was too angry to speak.
Shawn's mother looked at Monica's face, flushed red with anger, and the corner of her mouth twitched almost imperceptibly—a microexpression of contempt and disgust.
"Take your money," he said, turning his head to point at the scattered bills on the floor, then at the door, and said, word by word, "Now, immediately, get out of my house."
Monica looked into Shawn's cold, emotionless eyes. The slight tremble of her lips was stopped by her own forceful bite, until she tasted a hint of blood. She didn't say another word, just slowly, section by section, straightened her back, and then squatted down. Her movements were not the least bit flustered; instead, they were like she was performing some solemn ritual. She picked up the bills one by one, smoothing each one with her fingertips, and stacking them neatly, as if it were not a humiliation, but a debt to be collected. Finally, she stood up, gave Shawn one last look with her dead, calm eyes, and turned to leave. Her back was ramrod straight.
The door slammed shut, plunging the living room into silence. Before long, the happy sounds of a family eating and talking could be heard from the next room.