We’ll pay you nothing. My mom said this to my 13-year-old daughter Maya. You really thought you’d get money? How pathetic. My sister Jennifer laughed. After 6 weeks of making her work at their bakery, promising payment every single day. I didn’t lose my temper. I didn’t argue with them. Instead, I made one phone call.
Within 48 hours, their bakery was shut down, bank accounts frozen, and they were begging me to help them. Here’s exactly what happened. It started 4 months ago. My daughter Maya wanted to buy a laptop for her online art classes. A good one, 200. Dad, can I borrow money? She asked. How about you earn it instead? I suggested.
It’ll mean more to you. Her face lit up. Really? Can I get a job? You’re 13. Most places won’t hire you, but you can do yard work, babysitting. What about grandma’s bakery? I froze. My mother runs a small bakery with my sister Jennifer. They’d been complaining about being short staffed for months. I don’t know if that’s a good idea, sweetheart.
Why not? Grandma always says family helps family. That phrase, I’d heard it my entire childhood. Usually right before I was asked to do something for free. Let me think about it, I said. But Maya had already texted grandma. 10 minutes later, my phone rang. Why are you keeping Maya from working? Mom’s voice was sharp.
I’m not keeping her from anything. She wants to work. She wants to help. And you’re standing in her way like always. like always. There it was. Fine, I said. But she gets paid real wages. Of course, mom said suddenly sweet. We’d never take advantage of our own granddaughter. That should have been my first warning.
Maya started the next week. Monday through Saturday, 400 p.m. to 8:00 p.m. after school, plus full shifts on Saturdays. We’ll pay you $14 an hour, Jennifer told her. Under the table, cash only. Easier that way. Red flag. But Maya was excited. She came home every day smelling like fresh bread and vanilla, telling me about the customers and the recipes.
Dad, grandma taught me how to make croissants today. That’s great, honey. Are they keeping track of your hours? Oh, yeah. Jennifer [clears throat] has a notebook. Can I see it? She keeps it at the bakery. But don’t worry, they’re writing everything down. Week one passed. No payment. They said end of the month, Dad.
That’s normal, right? Week 2, Maya started coming home later. Why’d you work until 10 p.m. on a school night? I asked. They were busy. Grandma said I was such a good helper. They really needed me. Week three. I noticed bruises on Maya’s arms. What happened? Oh, I was carrying flower bags from the storage room.
They’re heavy. But Aunt Jennifer said I need to toughen up if I want to work in the real world. She was 13. Week four. Maya worked 9 hours on Saturday. No break. Did you eat lunch? Grandma said breaks are for lazy workers. She gave me a cookie, though. a cookie for 9 hours of labor. Week five.
I drove by the bakery at 6:00 p.m. Through the window, I saw Maya on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor. My mother was standing over her, arms crossed, watching. Something in my chest went cold. Week six. I decided to visit during Maya’s shift. I walked into the bakery at 5:00 p.m. on a Tuesday.
The place was packed, every table full, and there was Maya behind the counter, alone, taking orders, making drinks, boxing pastries, moving like a machine, my mother and Jennifer sitting at a back table, drinking coffee, laughing. I watched for 10 minutes. Maya didn’t stop once. Not for water, not to breathe, just work. When the rush finally died down, I approached the counter.
Maya, where’s Grandma and Jennifer? Oh, they’re on break. They’ve been working so hard lately. I looked at the back table. They’d been sitting there the entire time I’d been watching. When’s your break? I don’t really take breaks, Dad. Too busy, Maya? I said carefully. When are they paying you? Her smile faltered. End of the month.
That’s That’s this Friday. Have you asked them about it? Not yet. I don’t want to seem rude. I walked to the back table. Mom, Jennifer, can we talk? My mother looked up annoyed. Can’t you see we’re busy? busy sitting drinking coffee. It’s about Maya’s payment. Jennifer laughed. Oh, that. Yes, that.
Friday is the end of the month. She’s worked what about 180 hours roughly? Mom said waving her hand. So, at 14 an hour, that’s $2520. Silence. Then Jennifer smiled. Actually, we’re not paying her. The words didn’t register at first. Excuse me. She’s family. Mom said simply. Family doesn’t charge family. This was a learning experience. You promised her.
We never promised anything. Jennifer interrupted. We said she could help. She’s been helping. You told her $14 an hour as a joke. Mom said, “Obviously, she’s 13 years old. Why would we pay a 13-year-old real money?” I felt something crack inside my chest. “So, you’ve been using her for 6 weeks. Free labor. Don’t be dramatic.
” Jennifer said, “She’s been learning skills. That’s payment enough.” And honestly, mom added, leaning back. Her work isn’t even that good. She’s slow. She complains. If she wasn’t family, we’d have fired her week one. [clears throat] Behind me, I heard a small sound. Maya was standing there. She’d heard everything.
Tears were rolling down her face. But but grandma, you said. My mother rolled her eyes. Oh, don’t cry. You’re so dramatic, just like your father. Jennifer laughed. You really thought you’d get money? How pathetic. That laugh, that word pathetic. I watched my daughter’s face crumble and something inside me turned to ice. I didn’t yell. I didn’t argue.
I took Mia’s hand. Come on, sweetheart. We’re leaving. As we walked out, Jennifer called after us. Don’t be mad. It’s just business. In the car, Mia couldn’t stop crying. Dad, I’m so stupid. I should have known. No, I said firmly. You trusted family. That’s not stupid. What they did is criminal.
Criminal? I pulled out my phone and started making calls. Call number one, my friend David. He’s a labor investigator for the state. David, hypothetically, if someone employed a 13-year-old for 180 hours, promised wages, then refused to pay. What happens? That’s wage theft plus child labor violations, we’d shut them down immediately. Why? Just curious.
Call number two, my cousin Rachel. She works for the local newspaper. Rachel, you still do investigative pieces? Always. Why? How would you feel about covering a story on local businesses exploiting child labor? Very interested. Send me details. Call number three. This one was personal. My friend Marcus.
He works for the IRS. Marcus, if I suspected a business was hiding cash income and not reporting employee wages, who would I contact? Send it to me. I’ll make sure it gets to the right people. Maya watched me make these calls. Dad, what are you doing? protecting you and making sure they never do this to anyone else.
Friday morning, 7:13 a.m. My phone exploded. 12 calls from mom, eight from Jennifer, four from my aunt Karen. I ignored them all. Then a text from Jennifer. What did you do? State labor board is here. They’re shutting us down. Another from mom. Please call me. They’re asking about Maya. They’re asking about cash payments. We could go to jail.
I replied to neither. At 9:00 a.m., mom showed up at my house. She looked like she’d aged 10 years overnight. “Please,” she said. Her voice was shaking. “Please make this stop.” “Make what stop?” “The investigation, the labor board, the IRS, the reporter that showed up.” “Make it stop.” >> “Why would I do that?” “Because we’re family,” I laughed. Actually laughed.
“Now we’re family. When you needed Maya’s free labor, she was family. When she asked to be paid, suddenly she was pathetic. We’ll pay her right now. Whatever she wants. Too late. Please. She was crying now. They’re going to find us $50,000. The bakery will close. We’ll lose everything. Good. Her face went white.
You You want us to lose everything? No, Mom. I want you to face consequences. There’s a difference. But we’re your family. And Maya is my family. My daughter who you exploited and humiliated. So, yes, I reported you and I’d do it again. She stared at me like I was a stranger. “I’ll never forgive you for this,” she whispered. “I’ll sleep just fine,” I replied.
3 weeks later, the bakery was permanently closed. The state labor board finded them $47,000. The IRS opened a full audit and the local newspaper ran a front page story. Local bakery caught exploiting teen worker. Maya got every penny she was owed, plus penalties. Total $6,800. She bought her laptop and opened a savings account with the rest.
One night she asked me, “Dad, do you think you went too far?” I looked at her. “Sweetheart, let me ask you something. If someone stole from you, laughed at you, and called you pathetic, would you just let it go?” She thought about it, then shook her head. “Exactly. Standing up for yourself isn’t going too far. It’s called self-respect.
” She smiled. “Thanks, Dad. My mother never spoke to me again, and honestly, I’ve never been happier. So, tell me, did I go too far or not far enough? Should I have just let it go or was I right to protect my daughter?
