My 13-year-old son secretly took a job washing dishes, and I had no idea why. Then his boss called me and said, “Do you know what he does with every paycheck?! Everything that boy has told you about the money is a lie.”

So when he came to me one evening and announced that he had found a Saturday job washing dishes at a diner on Cherry Street, I was surprised but not shocked. He stood unusually straight while explaining that the owner, a man named Sal, had agreed to pay him cash each week.

“I want to buy the bike myself. I don’t want you paying for it.”

I told him we could find another way, but Evan shook his head.

“No. I want to earn it.”

I agreed on one condition: school came first, and if the job became too much, he had to stop. Evan grinned, hugged me tightly, and promised he could handle it.

Every Saturday after that, he left early wearing old jeans and worn sneakers. He returned in the evening smelling of dish soap and fryer grease, his hands increasingly red from hours in hot water.