I could tell something was wrong when Ben walked through the door that Friday evening. He was dragging his feet, and the usual brightness in his eyes was nowhere to be found.

His hands were still wet, probably from wringing out the towels after washing another car, and he avoided eye contact as he dropped onto the couch.

“Hey, bud, what’s going on?” I called from the kitchen.

I had planned on making him his favorite grilled chicken and mashed potatoes for dinner. I was going to have his plate ready the moment he walked in.

But looking at him now, I was worried. Ben was only 14 but recently got a taste of making money and wanted to be independent.

“Come on,” I said, wiping my hands. “You can tell me anything!”

For a second, he didn’t answer but stared at the ground. My heart sank when I saw the frustration etched on his face.

It was like he was trying to find the words but didn’t know how to get them out.

“He… he didn’t pay me,” Ben finally muttered.

“What do you mean? Didn’t Mr. Peterson agree to pay you $50 each time you washed his car?” I asked, feeling my own brow furrow.

Ben let out a sigh that sounded far too heavy for a 14-year-old.

“Yeah, but today, after I finished washing the car for the fourth time this month, he said it wasn’t ‘spotless’ and that I wouldn’t get paid. At all! He said I should have done a better job if I wanted my money.”

I felt my fists tighten. Mr. Peterson, that smug neighbor of ours who always had something slick to say. He strutted around in his suits, making sure everyone noticed the shine on his precious black Jeep.

“It’s a beautiful car, isn’t it?” he would ask, leaning out of his car. “Stunning!”

A few months ago, he became interested in Ben, especially after seeing Ben wash my car.

“Whoa! You’ve done a great job on your mom’s car, Ben! What do you say about washing my car every Friday? I’ll pay you, of course!”

Initially, I thought that it was a compliment, but now I could see it for what it really was:

A way to exploit cheap labor.

“You’ve been washing that car every week this month, haven’t you?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

Ben nodded, sinking deeper into the couch.

“Yeah, I’ve spent about three hours for the past four weeks, just making sure that it was clean. I even used the hand-vacuum under the seats and everything. But he said that I didn’t deserve to be paid.”

A flush of anger bloomed across my chest.

I knew Ben had done a great job. Whenever he did our car, I was always so impressed by him. And anyway, Mr. Peterson’s car gleamed like a showroom model when my son was done with it.

This wasn’t about the car being clean. No, sir. It was about Mr. Peterson being a jerk.

And now?

Now, Ben was left feeling like his hard work wasn’t worth anything.

“How much does he owe you?” I asked.

Ben thought for a moment.

“Four washes, Mom. So, $200.”

I pulled out my wallet and counted $200 in crisp bills. I handed it to him, watching his eyes widen in surprise.

“Here, you earned this, sweetheart.”

“Mom, you don’t have to. It was Mr. Peterson’s job to pay me!” he exclaimed.

I shook my head, cutting him off.

“I’m not done with Mr. Peterson, honey. He doesn’t get to treat you like this and walk away.”

Ben looked uncertain, his eyes flicking from the money in his hand to me.

“But, Mom!”

“No ‘buts,’ Ben,” I said, putting my wallet away. “Trust me, I’m going to teach Mr. Peterson a lesson about what happens when you take advantage of someone’s hard work. Now, come on, let’s eat. I’m starving!”

Ben smiled and sat down at the table.

“Thanks, Mom,” he said, smiling.

The next morning, I woke up with a plan. Mr. Peterson had no idea what was coming. I glanced out the window and, sure enough, there he was, standing in his silk pajamas, meticulously polishing his Jeep like a man obsessed.

I smiled and headed outside, casually walking toward him in my yoga clothes.

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

He looked up from his car, his usual smug expression already in place.

“Morning, Irene,” he said. “What can I do for you? But make it quick, I have brunch with the family soon.”

I could have rolled my eyes.

“Oh, nothing much. I just wanted to check in about Ben’s payment for washing your car,” I said. “He mentioned you weren’t satisfied with his work yesterday.”

Mr. Peterson straightened his back and crossed his arms.

“Yes, that’s right, Irene. The car wasn’t spotless, so I didn’t see the need to pay him. It’s a learning experience, you know? Anyway, he’s a young lad. The world has to humble him.”

The anger from the night before flared up again, but I kept my face neutral, even smiling a little.

“A learning experience, huh?” I said. “Interesting. Ben did tell me that you were a man of your word… and he mentioned that you agreed to pay him $50 per wash, regardless of how spotless it was. And wouldn’t you know it! I’ve got the pictures he took of the car after every wash.”

The smugness in his expression cracked a little.

“Pictures?” Mr. Peterson asked.

“Yes, pictures. He enjoyed sending them to his grandfather after every wash. He is very proud of his work.”

Mr. Peterson grunted.

“And anyway, it seems to me like a verbal agreement was made. And breaking that? Well, that’s a breach of contract, isn’t it? Should I speak to my lawyer about this?”

The color drained from his face.

“There’s no need for all that!” he exclaimed.

I held up a hand.

“Oh, I think there is. See, Ben worked hard, and you’re trying to cheat him out of what he earned. So, here’s the deal. You pay my son the $200 today, or I’ll make sure everyone in this neighborhood knows how you treat kids who work for you.”

He just stared at me.

“And if that doesn’t convince you, I’m more than happy to take legal action,” I continued.

I could see the panic settle into his features now. The neighbor with the perfect lawn and the perfect Jeep was suddenly sweating bullets into his silk pajamas.

He opened the car door and fumbled for his wallet, quickly counting out the cash.

“Here’s your money,” he muttered, handing over $200 in crumpled bills.

“Great. It’s been good doing business with you,” I said with a smile. “But please, understand that my son will not touch a car of yours again.”

He nodded grimly.

Inside, Ben looked up from the couch when I walked in. He had a bowl of cereal in his hands, and his eyes widened when I handed him the cash.

“You actually did it!” he exclaimed.

I grinned, feeling a fierce sense of pride.

“No one messes with my son,” I said. “Especially when they think they can get away with not paying what’s owed. Next time, if someone tries to pull a stunt like that, you’ll know exactly how to handle it.”

“Does this mean that I have to give you the $200 back?” he grinned.

“No,” I laughed. “But I think you can take me out on a mother-son date for lunch today?”

“Deal, Mom,” he said.

Later, when we were sitting in a cute bistro, Ben leaned across his chair, squinting at the sign from the ice cream parlor across the road.

“Help wanted,” he read. “What do you think, Mom? A weekend job at an ice cream parlor?”

“Go for it,” I laughed, getting into my burger. “But if the boss is mean, you know who to call.”

My son smiled at me and nodded slowly before picking up a fry.