I thought I had life all figured out—money, comfort, no hard work. Then my dad snapped. One moment I was in my warm bed; the next, I was stuck in the mountains, abandoned like a lost package. No phone reception. No way out. Just an old wooden house and a lesson I didn’t see coming.
I was sleeping like a rock, wrapped in the warmth of my blankets, lost in a dream I wouldn’t remember, when suddenly— whoosh— the curtains opened.
A sharp clang of metal against the rod, and then-BAM!
Sunlight exploded into the room like a spotlight, blinding me. It burned through my eyelids, jerking me straight from sleep.
“What the…?” I groaned, reaching for my pillow to cover my face.
“Get up,” my father’s voice echoed through the room, full of disappointment.
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I opened one eye and could barely make out his silhouette in the blinding sun. His arms were crossed, his stance firm.
I groaned again, rubbing my eyes. “What the hell is going on, Dad?”
“You sleep like a king,” he retorted.
“Meanwhile, when I was your age, I was busting my ass working day and night. You think life’s a joke, don’t you?”
I blinked, forcing myself to sit up straight. My father’s lectures always came through loud and clear, even first thing in the morning.
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“You get fired from the jobs I give you ,” he continued, his voice becoming sharper. “You walk around like the world owes you something. And I’m sick of it.”
It was always the same speech. I could recite it by heart.
How he started with nothing. How he worked until his hands bled. How he built everything from scratch. I had no idea what real work was.
I yawned, stretching my arms above my head. “Dad, stop. The poor life isn’t for me. I was born to be rich.”
His nostrils flared.
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I smiled, enjoying the reaction. “If you ‘d had money back then, you would have been like me.”
His jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth were going to crack.
“Do you think so?” His voice was lower now, quieter. The kind of dangerous silence.
I shrugged. “I know that .”
The air in the room changed. My father took a slow step back, shaking his head as if he’d finally made a decision.
“Very well,” he said flatly. “Do you want to see how real men live? You’ll have the chance.”
I let out a dry laugh. “Oh yeah? And what, you’re going to give me a big, hard life lesson?”
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He didn’t smile.
“No,” he said. His voice was calm now. Too calm. ” He will.”
My stomach knotted.
I should have known then—when my father stopped yelling and calmed down—that I was really in trouble.
The dull roar of the engine faded into the distance, swallowed by the endless expanse of trees. My father’s car was already a blur in the cloud of dust it had kicked up.
“Dad!” I rushed forward, the gravel crunching beneath my sneakers. “You can’t leave me here!”
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A single hand emerged from the driver’s window, a lazy, almost mocking wave. “Follow the path. You’ll find the house.”
And just like that, he was gone.
I stood there, stunned, watching the dust settle. Silence enveloped me, thick and absolute.
No cars, no voices, not even the hum of city life I was used to. Just the whisper of the wind through the towering pines and the occasional chirp of an unseen bird.
I slowly circled. Trees in every direction.
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The road stretched behind me like a forgotten scar in nature, but in front of me, nothing. No signs, no houses. Just dirt, rocks, and roots that sank into the earth like veins.
I took out my phone. No signal.
It’s obvious.
I exhaled sharply, muttering a string of curses under my breath. “Fantastic. Simply fantastic.”
I began walking. The dirt path was uneven, winding through the trees as if it had no real destination.
The sun beat down relentlessly, sweat pricking my neck. I swatted a mosquito. Then another.
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Within minutes they were everywhere, buzzing around my ears, pricking my arms, my neck, my hands.
“Seriously?” I moaned, crushing one against my wrist.
My brand-new sneakers—spotless white when I left the house this morning—were already covered in dust, their soles accumulating mud and tiny pebbles.
Every step I took I had to stop and shake them.
An hour passed. Then another. My stomach churned with hunger and my throat felt dry as sandpaper.
The air smelled of damp earth and pine, but there was nothing remotely resembling civilization.
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Then, finally, the house appeared.
Nestled among the trees as if it had been waiting for me, the wooden cabin seemed ancient.
The walls were dark with age, and the veranda sagged slightly in the middle. The windows were small, their panes stained with dust and rain stains.
I didn’t care about the appearance. I rushed inside, pushing the door open with more force than necessary. My backpack slipped off my shoulder and hit the floor with a thud.
The first thing I noticed was the smell: warm, rich, real food. My stomach knotted again, more acutely this time.
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On the table were a bowl of soup, fresh bread, thick slices of roast meat, and a glass of what looked like homemade fruit juice.
The steam curled in delicate tendrils, carrying the scent of garlic, herbs, and something almost smoky.
I didn’t think. I just moved.
Sinking onto the chair, I grabbed a piece of bread and devoured it like a hungry animal. The crust crunched between my teeth, warm and slightly chewy.
The soup—thick, golden, speckled with herbs—burned my tongue, but I didn’t care. I ate quickly, shoveling the food into my mouth, barely pausing to breathe.
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Then, a voice.
“You didn’t even wash your hands.”
I choked and coughed as a piece of bread got stuck in my throat. I spun around so fast that the chair legs scraped against the wooden floor.
A man stood in the doorway.
Tall. Bearded. His face was furrowed with deep lines, like the bark of a tree worn by time. His clothes were coarse, faded with wear, his boots crumbled under dried mud.
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He stood there with his arms crossed, looking at me with an expression that oscillated between amusement and slight disappointment.
It felt like he belonged there. Like he was the mountain itself.
I swallowed hard. “I was hungry.”
He walked in, his heavy boots thumping against the wood, and shook his head. “And you’re rude too.”
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, suddenly feeling like a scolded child. “Who are you?”
The old man let out a dry chuckle, sounding deep and gravelly. “That’s a better question, my boy.”
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He sat down opposite me, resting his forearms on the table. “Who are you?”
I frowned. “My father sent me here. He said you would teach me something.”
The old man stared at me for a long moment, then gave a small smirk.
“I already feel like this is going to be fun.”
The next morning, I woke up feeling like I’d been run over by a truck. Every muscle in my body ached.
The stiff wooden bed hadn’t done me any favors, and the thin blanket barely kept out the cold night air.
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At home, I would have sunk into my soft mattress, scrolled through my phone, and ignored the world. Here? Not so.
I groaned, sitting up and rubbing the back of my neck. The smell of pine and damp earth wafted through the open window. Outside, I heard the steady, dull thud of an axe splitting wood.
I dragged myself out of bed and staggered to the entrance. There he was, Jack. The old man moved at a steady pace, his arms strong despite his age.
His axe descended with surgical precision, splitting each log in two. He hardly seemed to notice me as I stepped onto the terrace.
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“Listen,” I said, trying to sound reasonable. “I get it. Hard work is important, money isn’t everything, blah blah. Just tell my dad I changed so I can go home.”
Jack didn’t even pause. He just let out a harsh, dry laugh, shaking his head.
“Nice try, kiddo,” he said, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
I huffed. “Okay, fine. How about I pay you?” I reached into my jacket and pulled out a wad of emergency cash. “How much do you want?”
Jack’s expression changed completely. His eyes darkened, the easy amusement gone from his face.
Without a word, he grabbed the money, walked to the river’s edge, and threw it into the water.
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I jumped. “Are you crazy?!”
Jack turned to me, his voice calm, almost too calm. “Do you think money solves everything?”
I clenched my fists, my pulse pounding in my ears. “Yes, indeed, it is.”
Jack smirked, then threw an axe toward my feet. The handle hit the ground with a dull thud.
“Let’s see if your money helps you chop wood.”
That evening, after what seemed like an endless day of cutting, lifting, and sweating, I dragged myself inside and collapsed into a chair.
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My arms hung heavily at my sides, my legs throbbed with exhaustion. Every part of my body ached.
My hands, once soft and tranquil, were now covered in blisters and dirt smeared in the creases of my fingers.
Before me was a plate of food—soup, bread, meat. The smell wafted through the air, warm and rich.
Normally, I would have gobbled it all up without even thinking about it. But now? Now it’s different.
I took a piece of bread and tore off a piece, chewing it slowly. This wasn’t just food. It was fuel. I worked for it, I sweated for it. And for the first time in my life, I felt like I’d earned something.
Jack sat across from me, sipping a cup, watching. His eyes narrowed slightly in amusement. “Not so bad, eh?”
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I grumbled between bites. “I would have still preferred a five-star restaurant.”
Jack chuckled, shaking his head. “Obviously.”
As I was looking for my drink, my eyes fell on something: a faded photo on a dusty shelf.
I slowed my chewing. The young man in the photo was unmistakable. His jaw was strong, his eyes determined.
Jack. But next to him stood someone I knew. Someone who looked much younger than I’d ever seen him.
My father.
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I stood up abruptly, nearly knocking my chair over. “Wait a second.”
I grabbed the photo, staring at it as if it might change if I looked hard enough. “You are…” I swallowed.
“Are you my grandfather?”
Jack slowly took a sip from his glass. “It took you a while.”
My mind raced. It made no sense. My father had always talked about his father, how he built his business from nothing, how he made his fortune.
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“But… Grandpa founded Dad’s company. He’s rich! Why would he live here like… like a hermit?”
Jack remained impassive. His voice was firm, sure. “Who said I was poor?”
I stared at him. “Then why?”
He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. The flickering candlelight cast deep shadows across his weathered face.
“Because true wealth is not measured in numbers,” he said. “It is measured by what you build with your own hands.”
For the first time in my life, I had nothing to say.
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The next morning, I woke up before the sun. Not because someone opened the curtains or yelled at me. Not because I had to.
Because I wanted to.
The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp wood and earth. The sky was still bruised by the night, the horizon barely whispering hints of orange.
My body ached from the day before, my muscles were stiff, my hands rougher than they had ever been. But instead of groaning and tossing and turning, I jumped out of bed.
Outside, the axe leaned against the block, waiting.
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My fingers wrapped around the handle and I lifted it, adjusting my position as Jack had shown me.
I took the plunge.
The blade met the wood with a sharp crack, splitting the log in two. I exhaled, my chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
One more time. Another log. Another blow. Another clean blow.
At first, I didn’t hear the car. The dull roar of an engine winding its way along the dirt road.
It was only when the tires stopped that I turned around, wiping the sweat from my forehead.
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He was there.
My father.
He stood beside his car, arms crossed, brows furrowed. His suit looked out of place here, too stiff, too clean. His gaze shifted from me to the axe I held in my hands.
“Well,” he said, his voice thick with something I couldn’t place. “This is a surprise.”
Jack came out of the porch and nodded to my father. “I told you he’d be fine.”
Dad exhaled through his nose and looked at me. “So, are you ready to go home?”
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I hesitated.
“Actually, I was thinking,” I said, moving the axe to the side, “maybe I’ll stay for dinner. You should too.”
Dad blinked. Once. Twice.
“Do you want to stay?”
I nodded. “Yes. I think I finally figured out what I was missing.”
Jack smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
And for the first time in my life, I understood what real wealth was.
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