When our son Lucas turned fourteen, I thought we had already navigated the toughest years of parenting. The tantrums were long gone, and the sleepless nights had become a distant memory. He was smart, funny, and had an almost photographic memory when it came to technology and video games. But as he got older, something began to shift. Slowly, quietly, he started to feel… entitled.
It didn’t happen all at once. It crept in gradually, like weeds growing in a garden, until one day I realized they had taken over.
It started with small things. He’d roll his eyes when I asked him to clear the dinner table. He’d “forget” to take out the trash until I reminded him three times. Then came the complaints: “Why do I have to do this? It’s gross,” or “Can’t you just do it, Mom?”
At first, I chalked it up to teenage laziness. My husband, Greg, thought the same. “He’s just going through a phase,” he’d say, laughing it off. “We’ll ride it out.”
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was something deeper. It wasn’t just laziness—it was an attitude. A belief that certain tasks were beneath him.
That belief became crystal clear one day when he marched into the kitchen, holding a sheet of paper, and announced, “From now on, I’m not doing any chores unless I get paid.”
I looked up from my laptop, certain I’d misheard him. “Excuse me?”
He held the paper out like a lawyer presenting evidence. “You and Dad get paid for working, right? Well, I should get paid, too. If you want me to take out the trash or clean my room, it’s going to cost you.”
Greg, who was sipping his coffee, nearly choked. “You’re joking,” he said, half-laughing.
Lucas wasn’t smiling. “I’m serious. I even made a list.” He set the paper down in front of us.
I scanned it, my eyebrows raising higher with each line:
Take out trash: $5 per trip
Wash dishes: $8
Mow lawn: $15
Clean room: $10
Laundry: $6 per load
At the bottom, he had written: Invoices due weekly. Late fees apply.
Greg let out a low whistle. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m not,” Lucas said firmly, crossing his arms. “If you want me to work, you have to pay me. That’s how the world works.”
I exchanged a glance with Greg. He looked amused; I looked horrified.
“Lucas,” I said carefully, “you’re part of this household. We all pitch in because it’s our responsibility—not because we get paid.”
“But that’s not fair!” he argued. “You and Dad get paid for what you do. Why should I do anything for free?”
“Because you live here,” I replied, trying to stay calm. “We buy your food, your clothes, your games, your phone—”
“That’s not the same thing,” he interrupted. “You’re supposed to do that. You’re the parents.”
Greg set his coffee down. “You’re missing the point, son. We work to afford those things. It’s not about money; it’s about pulling your weight.”
Lucas rolled his eyes. “Whatever. If you want chores done, you know my rates.” And with that, he grabbed an apple from the counter and walked upstairs.
Greg chuckled. “Well, at least he’s entrepreneurial.”
I didn’t find it funny. “He’s out of control,” I said. “We’ve let this go too far.”
He shrugged. “He’ll grow out of it. Let’s just ignore it.”
But ignoring it wasn’t an option.
Over the next few days, Lucas refused to do anything unless we paid him. When I asked him to take out the trash, he’d say, “That’ll be five bucks.” When Greg asked him to unload the dishwasher, it was, “Sure, once you Venmo me.”
And he was dead serious.
Our house started to fall into disarray. The trash piled up, his laundry overflowed, and the dishwasher remained full. He acted like it wasn’t his problem. “I told you,” he said one night when I asked why his room smelled like a compost heap. “No payment, no service.”
That’s when I realized something had to change.
Greg and I sat down that night after Lucas went to bed. “This isn’t working,” I said. “He’s not learning responsibility; he’s learning entitlement.”
Greg nodded slowly. “So what do we do?”
“We teach him what it really means to earn something.”
The next morning, I waited until Lucas came downstairs, bleary-eyed and yawning. “Good morning,” I said cheerfully. “Your dad and I were talking last night, and we’ve decided you’re right.”
He perked up. “I am?”
“Yes,” I said, smiling sweetly. “You should get paid for your work. But from now on, you’ll also have to start paying for what you use.”
He frowned. “What does that mean?”
Greg set a sheet of paper in front of him, the same way Lucas had done days earlier. “A list,” he said. “Of your expenses.”
Lucas glanced down.
Rent: $150/month
Internet: $25
Food: $100
Laundry service: $10 per load
Transportation (rides to school, sports, etc.): $5 per trip
Electricity, water, and heating: $50
His eyes widened. “This isn’t funny.”
“Neither was your invoice,” I said lightly. “Welcome to the real world.”
“But I’m your kid!”
“And we’re your landlords,” Greg replied. “If you want to live here under the new ‘contract,’ these are your expenses.”
He sputtered. “I don’t have that kind of money!”
“Well,” I said, “you’ll have to work for it. You can do chores or find another job. We pay in chores, but you’re free to negotiate.”
For a moment, he looked like he might argue. But then he just stomped back upstairs, muttering under his breath.
That evening, after the dinner dishes were done (by me), he came downstairs holding his phone. “Okay,” he said reluctantly, “I’ll take out the trash. That’s five dollars, right?”
I smiled. “Sure. Once we deduct your expenses for this week.”
Greg picked up a pen and did some quick math. “Let’s see: you owe $50 for utilities, $25 for internet, and $100 for food. You currently have a balance of… negative $175.”
Lucas stared at him. “That’s not fair!”
“Welcome to adulthood,” Greg said cheerfully.
He stomped back upstairs again.
For two days, he refused to participate. He sulked, played video games, and ignored us completely. I’ll admit, there were moments I doubted our approach. But on the third morning, something changed.
He came downstairs, looking sheepish. “Mom,” he said quietly, “I was wondering if there’s, like… a smaller job I could do to start paying off what I owe.”
I tried not to smile. “Well, the car needs washing. That’s worth ten dollars.”
He nodded. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
He spent the next hour outside scrubbing the car, muttering about “cheap labor.” But he did it, and when he came in, soaked and tired, I handed him an envelope with a crisp ten-dollar bill.
The pride on his face surprised me. “Can I keep this?”
“Not yet,” Greg said. “You still owe us $165.”
He groaned. But the next day, he mowed the lawn. Then he vacuumed the house. By the end of the week, he had paid off his “debt” and even earned a small surplus.
Then, something remarkable happened: he kept going.
He started doing things without being asked. He cleaned his room, folded his laundry, and even helped me carry groceries inside. I didn’t say anything at first; I didn’t want to break the spell, but I noticed.
One night, I found him sitting at the dining table, staring at a notebook filled with scribbles.
“What are you working on?” I asked.
He looked up, embarrassed. “Just… figuring out how much I’d need to make if I actually lived on my own. Rent, food, stuff like that.”
I sat beside him. “And what did you find out?”
He sighed. “That it’s expensive. Like, really expensive.”
I smiled. “Exactly.”
He looked thoughtful. “I didn’t realize how much you guys do for me.”
I put my hand over his. “That’s all we wanted you to see, sweetheart. We don’t expect you to pay us; we just want you to understand that life costs something. That responsibility isn’t about getting paid; it’s about being part of something bigger than yourself.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that now.”
Over the next few months, Lucas changed in ways that mattered. He started saving his allowance instead of spending it all on games. He offered to help neighbors with yard work. He even volunteered to mow Mrs. Jenkins’s lawn after she broke her leg.
When I asked why, he shrugged. “She needed help. And I’ve got the time.”
That was the moment I knew the lesson had stuck.
A few weeks later, Lucas came into the living room, holding two mugs of coffee.
“I made