Tom leaned back in the old leather chair, one his father had insisted on keeping despite its cracked arms and creaky recline. The room smelled of coffee and engine oil—residue from years of Bill’s routine: a mug of black coffee at sunrise, a quick look at the news, and then off to the garage, even long after retirement.

  "You know what your problem is, Tom?" Bill said, not even looking up from the paper. "You want things too easy. Your generation doesn’t understand the value of grit."

  Tom smiled softly, knowing what was coming. "Go on."

  "When I started out," Bill said, folding the newspaper with a snap, "I had nothing. Not a damn thing. Worked two jobs. Saved every penny. Bought our first house at 26. You just have to want it bad enough. Put your back into it."

  Tom sipped his coffee. "You think I don't work hard?"

  "Not like we did. And don’t get me started on those kids making TikToks and calling it a job. I mean, seriously—"

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  "Some of those kids make more than most CEOs," Tom said lightly.

  "Exactly! What kind of messed-up world is that?" Bill said, throwing his arms up. "I built carburetors with my bare hands and had to fight for a raise every year."

  There was a pause. The ceiling fan hummed.

  "But Dad, what if it’s not about how hard you work anymore?" Tom said. "What if it’s about timing, luck, algorithms—systems that reward some while others never even get a chance to play?"

  Bill looked at him, frowning. "There’s always a chance."

  "Sure. But is it reasonable? You had a shot, a real one. The market was growing, wages were climbing, housing was within reach. Today, most people my age are doing multiple jobs just to stay afloat. It’s not about laziness. It’s math."

  Bill scoffed, but then caught himself. His brow softened.

  "The kid down the street," he said slowly. "Works every day, rides the bus an hour each way to that warehouse job. Always polite. Always tired. Doesn’t miss a shift. Still lives with his folks."

  Tom nodded. "Hard worker. But the path you took isn't there anymore."

  Bill fell silent.

  "I'm not saying it's hopeless," Tom continued. "Just that it’s not fair to pretend it’s the same game. You played on an open field. We're trying to play in a maze."

  Bill stared out the window. The old pickup was parked where it always had been.

  "Maybe," he said. "Maybe the game changed more than I thought."

  Tom didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. Sometimes the quiet carried its own weight.