Moja córka nie dostała wynagrodzenia za swoją wakacyjną pracę w lokalnym barze z lodami – jak sobie z tym poradziła, uświadomiła mi, że dobrze ją wychowałam

Then she showed me something I absolutely wasn’t expecting.

A spreadsheet.

Every single shift was in it.

Date.

Start time.

End time.

Break.

Total hours.

She had even noted the days Santiago asked her to stay late.

At the bottom was the total, highlighted in bold, $1,104.

I looked at her. “When did you make this?”

“After he was late with the first payment.”

Then she showed me a folder.

Screenshots of every text where Santiago asked her to work.

Screenshots confirming her hourly rate.

Messages where she asked about her paycheck. And several messages from Santiago admitting he owed her money and promising specific dates when he would pay it.

Every date had passed.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m calling him.”

Sloan quickly snatched the phone from my hands.

“No.”

“Sloan.”

“Mom, please.”

“He owes my 16-year-old daughter eleven hundred dollars.”

“I know.”

“So I’m calling him.”

She shook her head. “I already did something.”

That made me stop. “What did you do?”

“I sent him my hours and told him I wanted everything he owes me.”

“And?”