One Friday evening, my 14-year-old son, Ben, walked into the house looking utterly defeated. Normally, he’d come in with a cheerful smile, especially after making a few bucks washing cars. But today, something was clearly off. He was dragging his feet, his hands still damp, probably from wringing out the towels.

“Hey, buddy, what’s wrong?” I asked from the kitchen, where I was making his favorite dinner—grilled chicken with mashed potatoes. I could see that whatever was bothering him was serious.

He plopped onto the couch and just stared at the floor, not saying a word. I knew something was up, so I pushed a little. “Come on, you can talk to me. What happened?”

After a long pause, Ben finally muttered, “Mr. Peterson didn’t pay me.”

“What? Didn’t he agree to pay you $50 each time you washed his car?” I asked, feeling the heat of anger rising.

Ben let out a deep sigh. “Yeah, but today, after I finished washing his car for the fourth time this month, he said it wasn’t ‘perfect’ and refused to pay me. He said if I wanted my money, I should’ve done a better job.”

I couldn’t believe it. Mr. Peterson, our smug neighbor who always flaunted his shiny black Jeep, had convinced Ben to wash his car weekly. It all started a few months ago when he saw Ben washing our car and praised his work. “Hey, Ben, how about you wash mine every Friday? I’ll pay you, of course,” he had said, making it sound like a great opportunity.

At first, I thought it would be a good way for Ben to learn about earning money. But now it was clear that Mr. Peterson had other plans—he was just exploiting Ben’s hard work.

“Wait, you’ve been washing his car every week this month?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

Ben nodded. “Yeah, I’ve spent about three hours each time, making sure it was spotless. I even vacuumed under the seats and everything. But he said I didn’t deserve to be paid.”

I could feel my anger building. I knew my son had done an excellent job—our own car always looked like it came straight out of a showroom whenever Ben was done with it. This wasn’t about the car being clean. It was about Mr. Peterson being a jerk.

“How much does he owe you?” I asked, trying to stay calm.

“Four washes, so $200,” Ben replied, looking defeated.

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Without hesitation, I pulled out my wallet and counted out $200 in cash. “Here, you earned this,” I said, handing the money to Ben.

“Mom, you don’t have to do this. It was Mr. Peterson’s responsibility to pay me,” he protested.

I shook my head firmly. “You’re right, it was. But trust me, I’m not letting him get away with this. He won’t know what hit him.”

The next morning, I woke up with a clear plan. I peeked out the window and, sure enough, there was Mr. Peterson in his silk pajamas, polishing his precious Jeep like it was made of gold. I threw on some yoga pants and headed outside with a smile.

“Good morning, Mr. Peterson!” I called out cheerfully.

He looked up, his usual smug grin plastered on his face. “Morning, Irene. What can I do for you today?”

I got straight to the point. “I just wanted to check in about Ben’s payment for washing your car. He mentioned you weren’t satisfied yesterday.”

He crossed his arms and said, “That’s right. The car wasn’t spotless, so I didn’t see the need to pay him. It’s a good life lesson for him—sometimes the world doesn’t reward mediocre work.”

I took a deep breath, keeping my smile intact. “Interesting. But Ben did tell me you agreed to pay him $50 per wash, regardless of how ‘spotless’ it was. And wouldn’t you know it? He took pictures of the car after every wash to show his grandfather.”

Mr. Peterson’s confident demeanor faltered. “Pictures?” he asked, clearly taken aback.

“Yes, pictures,” I confirmed. “And those pictures prove that he did a fantastic job. Now, if you don’t pay him today, I might just have to involve my lawyer. A verbal agreement is still a contract, you know.”

The color drained from his face. “No need to involve a lawyer,” he stammered.

I leaned in a little closer. “Oh, I think there is. You took advantage of a kid’s hard work, and that’s not going to fly. You either pay him now, or I’ll make sure everyone in this neighborhood hears about how you treat kids who work for you.”

Panicking, he reached into his car, fumbling for his wallet. Within seconds, he was handing me $200 in crumpled bills. “Here’s the money,” he muttered, looking thoroughly defeated.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” I said with a smile. “But don’t expect my son to wash your car again.”

When I got back home, I handed the cash to Ben, who was sitting on the couch with his bowl of cereal. His eyes widened in disbelief. “You actually did it!” he exclaimed.

“Of course, I did,” I said, grinning. “No one messes with my son and gets away with it. Now you know—never let anyone cheat you out of what you’re owed.”

Ben laughed and asked, “Does this mean I have to give you the $200 back?”

“No,” I chuckled. “But I think you owe me a lunch date.”

“Deal, Mom,” he agreed.

Later that day, as we enjoyed our meal at a local café, Ben noticed a “Help Wanted” sign at the ice cream parlor across the street. “What do you think, Mom? Should I try getting a weekend job there?”

I smiled and nodded. “Go for it. But remember, if the new boss tries to mess with you, you know exactly who to call.”

Ben grinned, knowing I’d always have his back.