One Friday evening, my 14-year-old son, Ben, walked through the door looking completely dejected. Normally, he’d burst in with a grin, especially after earning some cash from washing cars in the neighborhood. But not this time. Something was clearly bothering him. His shoulders were slumped, and his hands were still damp, likely from wringing out towels after his last job.

“Hey, buddy, what’s going on?” I called out from the kitchen, where I was preparing his favorite dinner—grilled chicken with mashed potatoes. Usually, the smell alone would bring him to the table, but this time, he shuffled over to the couch without a word, flopped down, and stared at the floor.

I walked over, sensing something was seriously wrong. “You can talk to me, Ben. What happened?”

After a long silence, he finally mumbled, “Mr. Peterson didn’t pay me.”

I froze. “What do you mean? Didn’t he agree to pay you $50 every time you washed his car?”

Ben sighed deeply. “Yeah, he did. 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 the money, I should’ve done a better job.”

I felt my blood start to boil. Mr. Peterson, our overly proud neighbor with his shiny black Jeep, had approached Ben a few months ago, praising his car-washing skills and offering him a job. “Hey, Ben, why don’t you wash my car every Friday? I’ll pay you well,” he had said. It sounded like a great opportunity, so I encouraged Ben to take it. Little did I know, Mr. Peterson had other plans—plans to exploit my son’s hard work.

“How many times have you washed his car this month?” I asked, already dreading the answer.

“Four,” Ben replied, his voice heavy with frustration. “I spent about three hours each time, making sure it was spotless. I even vacuumed under the seats. But he said I didn’t deserve to get paid.”

Hearing this, I was livid. I knew Ben’s work was impeccable; our car always gleamed like it had just rolled off the lot after he cleaned it. This wasn’t about the car’s cleanliness—it was about Mr. Peterson being an opportunist.

“How much does he owe you?” I asked, trying to keep my composure.

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

I didn’t hesitate. I pulled out my wallet and handed him $200 in cash. “Here,” I said. “You earned every penny of this.”

“Mom, you don’t have to do that,” Ben protested. “It was his responsibility to pay me.”

“You’re right, it was,” I agreed firmly. “But don’t worry—I’m not letting him get away with this.”

@diorviolin Who wants to be my neighbour?🤔 #neighbour #debt #money #2am #meme #diorviolin ♬ original sound 🇸🇬 – Dior Violin

The next morning, I had a plan. I looked out the window and spotted Mr. Peterson in his driveway, wearing his silk pajamas and polishing his Jeep like it was a priceless artifact. I threw on some yoga pants, grabbed my phone, and headed outside.

“Good morning, Mr. Peterson!” I called out with a cheerful smile.

He looked up, his usual smug grin in place. “Morning, Irene. How can I help you?”

I didn’t waste time. “I wanted to talk about Ben’s payment for washing your car. He told me you weren’t satisfied yesterday.”

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

I took a deep breath, keeping my smile intact. “Interesting perspective. But Ben told me you agreed to pay him $50 per wash, regardless of your satisfaction. And wouldn’t you know it? He took pictures of your car after every wash to send to his grandfather.”

Mr. Peterson’s confidence wavered. “Pictures?” he stammered.

“Yes, pictures,” I said, my tone firm. “And they show he did an excellent job. If you don’t pay him today, I’ll involve my lawyer. A verbal agreement is still a contract.”

His face paled. “No need to involve a lawyer,” he muttered, fumbling for his wallet. Within seconds, he handed me $200 in crumpled bills.

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

Back home, I handed the cash to Ben, who was sitting on the couch eating cereal. His eyes widened. “You actually got it?”

“Of course,” I said with a grin. “No one cheats my son and gets away with it.”

Ben laughed. “So, do I owe you the $200 back?”

“No,” I said with a chuckle. “But you owe me a lunch date.”

“Deal, Mom,” he replied.

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

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

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