The Ruler I Used Came From 1990
My son, Leo, was twenty-three.
To the outside world—and, if I’m honest, to me at the time—he looked like a failure.
I’m a simple guy.
I grew up in a time when sweat equity meant something.
I bought my first house at twenty-four working at a local manufacturing plant.
I drove a beat-up truck, fixed it myself, and never complained.
That was the deal, as I understood it.
You work hard, you get the white picket fence.
Simple math.
So when I looked at Leo, I didn’t see a struggle.
I saw laziness.
He had a college degree gathering dust.
He spent his days glued to his phone, delivering food for one of those gig-economy apps, and sleeping until noon.
He lived in my basement, wore the same oversized hoodie every day, and had a look in his eyes that I mistook for boredom.
I was constantly on his case.
“The world doesn’t owe you a living, Leo,” I’d say, slamming my coffee mug down.
“Get a real job. Build some character.”
I measured him with a ruler from my era.
And every time he didn’t measure up, I used the ruler like a weapon.
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