Three weeks ago, I had to teach my smug neighbor, Mr. Peterson, a lesson he would never forget. It all started when my 14-year-old son, Ben, came home looking unusually downcast one Friday evening. Normally, he’d walk in with a bounce in his step, especially after earning some extra cash. But that day was different.

I could tell something was wrong as soon as I saw him. He walked into the living room, avoiding eye contact, his hands still damp from wringing out towels after washing yet another car. Concerned, I called out from the kitchen, “Hey, bud, what’s going on?”

Ben just slumped onto the couch, eyes glued to the floor. I set aside my dinner preparations—grilled chicken and mashed potatoes, his favorite—and walked over to him. “You can tell me anything,” I urged.

After a moment of silence, he finally muttered, “He didn’t pay me.”

“Wait, what?” I asked, my voice rising with surprise. “Didn’t Mr. Peterson promise to pay you $50 each time you washed his car?”

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

Hearing that made my blood boil. Mr. Peterson was that kind of neighbor who liked to flaunt his shiny black Jeep and strut around in his expensive suits. A few months ago, he’d approached Ben after seeing how well he washed our family car.

“Ben, you did a fantastic job,” he’d said. “How would you like to wash my car every Friday? I’ll pay you well.” At the time, I thought it was a nice gesture, but now, I realized it was just a way for him to exploit cheap labor.

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I turned back to Ben, who looked defeated. “You’ve been washing that car every week, haven’t you?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“Yeah,” he said, sinking further into the couch. “I even vacuumed under the seats and polished the rims, but he said it wasn’t good enough.”

My heart ached for Ben. He had worked so hard, taking pride in doing a great job, and now he was left feeling like all his effort was worthless.

“How much does he owe you?” I asked.

“Four washes. That’s $200,” he replied.

Without hesitation, I pulled out my wallet and handed him $200 in crisp bills. “Here, honey, you earned this.”

“But Mom, it was Mr. Peterson’s job to pay me!” Ben protested.

“I know,” I said, smiling. “And trust me, he’s going to pay. But you deserve this money for all your hard work.”

The next morning, I woke up with a plan. I peeked out the window and saw Mr. Peterson outside, polishing his precious Jeep, wearing his usual silk pajamas. It was time for a confrontation.

“Good morning, Mr. Peterson!” I greeted him, a friendly smile plastered on my face.

He looked up, clearly annoyed at being interrupted. “Morning, Irene. What can I do for you? Make it quick, I’ve got brunch plans.”

“I just wanted to check in about Ben’s payment,” I said, keeping my tone light. “He told me you weren’t satisfied with his work yesterday.”

Mr. Peterson’s smug expression only deepened. “That’s right, Irene. The car wasn’t spotless, so I didn’t see the need to pay him. Kids need to learn that the real world doesn’t reward half-efforts.”

I felt my anger flare up, but I kept my cool. “Interesting,” I replied. “You see, Ben mentioned that you agreed to pay him $50 per wash, regardless of minor imperfections. And, funny enough, he’s been taking pictures of your car after every wash.”

“Pictures?” he stammered, his confidence wavering.

“Yes,” I nodded. “He liked to send them to his grandfather, who was proud of the work he’s been doing. So, I have proof that your car was spotless.”

Mr. Peterson’s face went pale. “Look, Irene, there’s no need to get all legal about this.”

“Oh, but I think there is,” I continued. “You see, a verbal agreement is still a contract. If you don’t pay Ben the $200 today, I’ll make sure everyone in the neighborhood hears about how you exploit kids. And if that doesn’t convince you, I’m more than happy to take this to court.”

The panic on his face was priceless. He fumbled for his wallet, pulling out crumpled bills. “Fine, here’s your money,” he grumbled, shoving the cash into my hand.

“Thank you,” I said sweetly. “And just so you know, Ben won’t be washing your car again.”

When I got home, Ben was sitting on the couch, finishing a bowl of cereal. His eyes widened as I handed him the money. “You actually got him to pay up!” he exclaimed.

“Of course,” I said, grinning. “No one messes with my son and gets away with it. And now, if someone tries to take advantage of you again, you’ll know exactly what to do.”

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

“No,” I laughed. “But how about you treat me to a mother-son lunch today?”

“Deal, Mom,” he agreed.

Later, as we enjoyed burgers at a local bistro, Ben noticed a “Help Wanted” sign across the street at an ice cream shop. “What do you think, Mom? Should I apply for a weekend job there?”

I smiled and took a bite of my burger. “Go for it. But remember, if the boss tries to pull a fast one, you know who to call.”

Ben grinned and nodded. I felt a surge of pride knowing that I had not only stood up for him but also taught him a valuable lesson in standing up for himself. Sometimes, all it takes is a little backbone—and maybe a mom who’s ready to go to bat for her kid.