Wesley leaned back in his chair and pushed his plate away, sighing loudly.
“Meatloaf again?” he complained. “Can’t we ever have something different?”
His mother’s smile faded slightly. “We had roast chicken yesterday, hamburgers the day before, and fish on Friday,” she reminded him gently.
Wesley rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever,” he muttered, getting up to leave the table.
Before he could walk away, his mother called out, “Wesley, please rinse your plate and put it in the dishwasher.”
He turned with a smirk. “Why should I? I’m not your servant.”
His mother blinked, caught off guard. “My servant?”
“Yeah,” Wesley said smugly. “I don’t get paid to do this stuff. Working without pay is basically servitude.”
His father set down his fork, studying him calmly. “Son, we give you food, clothes, a home, and an education—”
“That’s your job,” Wesley interrupted. “You’re supposed to do that. But I don’t have to do anything unless I get paid for it.”
His mother’s face turned red with frustration, but his father stayed composed. “So, you think you should get paid for doing chores?” he asked evenly.
Wesley grinned. “Exactly! Taking out the trash—one dollar. Washing dishes—two. Walking the dog—four. Cleaning my room—five. Mowing the lawn—ten. Simple.”
His mother opened her mouth to argue, but his father stopped her. “Alright,” he said with a nod. “From now on, we’ll pay you for every chore you do.”
Wesley’s grin widened, already imagining all the money he’d make.
“But,” his father added, “since you’ll be earning now, you’ll also start paying for your own expenses.”
Wesley barely paid attention to that part. He was already daydreaming about how rich he was going to be.
The next day after football practice, Wesley came home starving. “Mom, what’s for dinner?” he asked eagerly.
His mother smiled sweetly. “Turkey pot pie with sweet potatoes and peas.”
“Awesome! I’m starving!” he said, reaching for a plate.
But his father held up a hand. “Hold on, son. Since you’re earning now, your mom won’t be cooking for free. Dinner will be ten dollars.”
Wesley froze. “Ten dollars?! That’s insane!”
His mother shrugged. “You can always buy something for yourself instead.”
Grumbling, Wesley stomped upstairs and ordered a pizza. But when it arrived, he realized it cost fifteen dollars with the tip and delivery fee. That meant he’d have to work three days just to pay for one meal.
Being “independent” suddenly didn’t seem so great.
The next morning, the smell of bacon tempted him back into the kitchen. “Mom, can I get my eggs over easy?” he asked hopefully.
“Of course,” she said cheerfully. “That’ll be six dollars.”
Wesley frowned. “You’re charging me for breakfast now?”
She smiled. “Well, I could make it for free—but that would make me your servant, wouldn’t it?”
Wesley groaned. “Fine, I’ll just have toast.”
“That’ll be two dollars,” his mother said, trying not to laugh.
His father sipped his coffee and chuckled. “Welcome to adulthood, son.”
A few days later, Wesley needed money for a new football jersey. “Dad, I need seventy dollars for the team uniform,” he said.
His father raised an eyebrow. “And why are you telling me this?”
“So you can give it to me!” Wesley said impatiently.
His dad shook his head. “Oh no, son. You’re earning now. You pay for your own things.”
Wesley’s eyes widened. “Where am I supposed to get seventy dollars?!”
“From your job,” his father replied simply.
Wesley did the math in his head. At five dollars per chore, it would take him nearly two weeks to save up for the jersey.