Something uncomfortable twisted in my chest.
“Thirty dollars total,” I asked.
The younger boy shook his head quickly, almost frightened by the question.
“Yes sir. Total. That is fine for us.”
Fine for us.
Those three words landed heavier than I expected. I studied them more carefully. Their shoes were worn through at the edges. Their jeans were frayed. Their hands were already marked with dirt and small scratches. These were not kids pretending to work for pocket money. These were kids working because someone at home needed that money.
I thought of my own complaints. My long hours. My stress. My desire for a quiet Saturday. And here they were, offering real labor for a price that barely recognized their effort.
“Alright,” I said. “You have a deal.”
The older boy’s eyes widened with brief, bright relief. The younger one smiled as if something important had been won.
They wasted no time. They wheeled their cart to the side yard, set down their tools, and began working immediately. No phones. No distractions. No arguing. Just motion and focus.