I used to think I had it made. My life was soft, easy, predictable—warm bed, no real responsibilities, and a dad who always bailed me out. But everything changed one morning when I was still tangled in my blankets, half-asleep, and the curtains flew open with a violent screech. Sunlight stabbed through the room, and my dad’s voice followed right behind it. “Get up,” he barked, his disappointment hanging heavy in the air.

I groaned and pulled the pillow over my head. “What the hell, Dad?”

“You sleep like royalty,” he said, glaring at me. “When I was your age, I was working my fingers to the bone. You think this life just falls into your lap?”

I knew this speech. Heard it a hundred times. How he’d built his business from nothing, how he’d earned every brick of the house I took for granted. I smirked and said the thing that always set him off: “If you’d had money back then, you’d be just like me.”

He went quiet. Too quiet. Then he said something that made my stomach turn. “Fine. You want to see how real men live? You’ll get your chance.”

The next thing I knew, I was standing on a dirt road surrounded by trees, no phone signal, no idea where I was. My dad didn’t even get out of the car. Just waved and told me to follow the path to a house. Then he drove off, leaving me alone in the middle of nowhere.

The walk through the woods was brutal. Bugs swarmed my face, my brand-new sneakers were caked in mud, and I was starving. After what felt like hours, I finally found a wooden cabin tucked between the trees. It looked ancient, like it had grown there with the forest. But the smell that hit me when I stepped inside nearly knocked me over—fresh bread, hot soup, roasted meat.

I dropped my bag and inhaled the food like I hadn’t eaten in days. Halfway through my second bite, a voice cut through the room. “Didn’t even wash your hands.”

I spun around to find an old man standing in the doorway, arms crossed. He looked like he’d been carved from the same trees outside—tough, weathered, immovable.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Better question,” he said, settling into the chair across from me. “Who are you?”

“My dad sent me. Said you’d teach me something,” I mumbled.

The old man—Jack, I’d later learn—just smirked. “This’ll be fun.”

The next day started with the sound of an axe splitting wood. Jack was already outside, working like it was the most natural thing in the world. I tried to reason with him, offered him cash to let me leave. He took my money, walked to the river, and threw every bill in. I lost it. “Are you insane?”

“You think money fixes everything?” he asked.

“Yeah. I do,” I snapped.

Without another word, he kicked an axe toward me. “Then let’s see what your money does for you now.”

The rest of the day was a blur of chopping wood, hauling logs, and aching muscles. That night, I stared at the meal in front of me with a different kind of hunger. Not desperation, but appreciation. I had earned it.

While eating, my eyes landed on a photo on the shelf—Jack, years younger, standing next to my dad. My mouth went dry. “You’re my grandfather?”

He nodded. “Took you long enough.”

“But why are you here?” I asked. “You’re the founder. You’re supposed to be rich.”

Jack leaned forward. “Who said I’m not? Real wealth isn’t what’s in your wallet. It’s what you build with your hands.”

The next morning, for the first time in my life, I woke up on my own. Not because someone yelled. Because I wanted to. The air was crisp, the world quiet. I grabbed the axe and got to work. Each swing felt purposeful.

Then I heard a car. My dad. He stepped out, his suit stiff against the backdrop of pine and dirt. He stared at me, then at the chopped wood. “That’s a surprise,” he muttered.

Jack joined us, arms folded. “Told you he’d be fine.”

“You ready to go home?” Dad asked.

I hesitated. “I was thinking… maybe I’ll stay for dinner. You should, too.”

His eyes widened. “You want to stay?”

I nodded. “I think I finally figured out what I was missing.”

Jack grinned. And for the first time in my life, I felt rich.