In the warm glow of the dining room, the Greenbergs sat together for a rare family meal.
Wayne, his parents, and the two golden retrievers formed a quiet tableau—one that hadn't happened in months.
The dogs lay curled at Wayne's feet, having finished their canned food, occasionally rewarded with a scrap of beef from his plate.
He chatted with his mother about campus life, professors, and the oddities of film school.
The beef stew was rich and comforting, and though Wayne had long adapted to American cuisine, moments like this still stirred memories of Chinese dishes from his past life.
After dinner, the family migrated to the living room. The three of them sank into the sofa, the dogs nestled nearby, and the television flickered in the background.
Wayne reached for the document bag and handed it to his mother.
"Mom, take a look. This is the first feature I've written for myself. I want to use it as my graduation project. Dad's agreed to call the accountant tomorrow and help fund the shoot."
His mother took the folder, and Old Greenberg instinctively turned down the volume.
As Wayne and his father started a hushed conversation, debating quarterbacks—Green Bay Packers versus New England Patriots—his mother quietly read through the script and proposal.
Half an hour later, she set the papers down.
"Wayne," she said, "I'll be honest—I don't love the story. But the project itself? It's solid. For a first film, it's exactly the right size. I saw your budget—about $1.2 million. Just make sure you've accounted for every cost. Surprises and delays are inevitable, especially for a first-time director."
She leaned forward, her tone shifting from critique to advice.
"There aren't many lead roles, and the acting demands are manageable. My suggestion? Cast a blonde woman for the lead—someone striking. It'll help the film stand out visually. Don't underestimate the power of a 'vase,' Wayne. And promise me—don't put too much pressure on yourself."
Wayne nodded, absorbing every word.
His mother had been a top-tier producer in her prime.
Unlike his father, she hadn't fully stepped away from the industry. She still wrote, still kept her ear to the ground. Her instincts were sharp.
"Mom, don't worry, I'll make it work," he said. "There are thousands of people in Hollywood waiting for their shot. I won't waste mine. I don't want to bounce between small crews after graduation, shooting someone else's vision. I want to prove I can do this."
He looked at her with with a small smile of his own. These weren't just words for her—they were a vow to himself.
He'd seen how the industry worked. Directors were often reduced to hired hands, excluded from post-production, stripped of creative input.
Only those who proved themselves—again and again—earned the right to shape the final cut.
Wayne refused to be a puppet. He wanted to be a filmmaker.
His mother reached out and touched his face, her expression soft.
"Of course, honey. I believe in you. You'll make me proud."
Wayne felt a swell of emotion. His father was willing to fund his dream. His mother still believed in his talent. In a world built on rejection and compromise, he knew how rare that kind of support was.
He was lucky. And he wasn't going to waste it.
"Alright, boy," Old Greenberg said with a wink, pointing at the TV. "If you give up on the Patriots and back the Packers with me, I might just throw in a little extra investment."
Wayne grinned and shook his fist. "Don't even dream of it, Dad. The Patriots are taking the Super Bowl. Just watch."
With that, he grabbed his script and headed upstairs.
The playful exchange masked the pressure he felt. He had one shot—his father had made that clear. If he failed, the fallback was a slow climb through small crews and assistant gigs, relying on family connections to inch his way toward relevance.
He didn't want that life. He wanted to skip the ladder and build the tower himself.
Upstairs, Wayne spread the script across his desk and began sketching storyboards. He had to think through every frame, every transition. This wasn't just a student film—it was his ticket into Hollywood. And tickets like this came at a steep price.
The next morning, he was jolted awake by two furry missiles. The golden retrievers had launched themselves onto the bed, tails wagging, tongues out.
"Hey, you little monsters—off!" Wayne groaned, pushing them away. "You're way too big for this now."
It was past eight.
Sunlight streamed through the balcony window, warming the sheets and tempting him to stay in bed.
But he knew better. Comfort was the enemy of ambition.
He washed up, grabbed two carrots, and headed out to the horse pen behind the villa.
A black quarter horse trotted over as Wayne approached, ears perked. He fed it the carrots, then began cleaning the pen and brushing its coat with practiced ease.
The horse had been a gift for his fifteenth birthday. Back then, it was just a pony. But Old Greenberg's rule was simple: if you want it, you care for it. No exceptions. No shortcuts.
The same applied to the dogs, the car, even the camera Wayne had begged for in high school.
His father's philosophy was clear—ownership meant responsibility. If you couldn't handle that, you didn't deserve the privilege.
And if you failed? You didn't get scolded. You got assigned to help the cowboys with manual labor. That was the punishment.
Not lectures—shovels.
Wayne had learned early that a man had to stand by his choices. That lesson stuck.
He often thought about the contrast between his two lives.
American-style education taught independence early—responsibility, self-reliance, consequence.
Across the Pacific, the system was different. More rigid. More theoretical. He remembered learning middle school content in high school, and college-level ideas in elementary school. But the structure lacked the grit of experience.
Here, on this farm, he'd learned something no textbook could teach: how to own your path.