When our son, Lucas, turned fourteen, I thought we’d weathered the hardest years of parenting. The tantrums were long gone, the sleepless nights a distant memory. He was smart, witty, and had an almost photographic memory when it came to anything related to technology or video games.
But as he grew older, something started to shift. Slowly, subtly, he became… entitled. It wasn’t sudden.
It crept in the way weeds do quietly, until one day you look around and realize they’ve taken over the garden. 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 brushed it off as teenage laziness.
My husband, Greg, thought so too. “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 this 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 the day he marched into the kitchen, holding a sheet of paper, and declared, “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 like a lawyer presenting evidence. “You and Dad get paid for working, right? Well, I should, 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 at the counter, 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 rising 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’d 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 said, 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.
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