The days that followed tore me down and rebuilt me in ways I never expected. Jack, who turned out to be my grandfather, wasn’t interested in excuses or shortcuts—only effort. He made me work for every bite I ate, every breath of respect I earned. Money meant nothing here. Muscles ached, hands blistered, but something inside me shifted.

For the first time, I didn’t wait to be woken up—I woke up because I wanted to. I swung the axe not out of obligation, but pride. When my dad returned to pick me up, I didn’t leap at the chance to go. Instead, I invited him to stay. In that moment, surrounded by trees, sweat, and the warmth of shared labor, I understood what Jack meant. Real wealth wasn’t handed down—it was carved out of the world with your own two hands.