He hated living in his father’s house because of the constant lectures.
“Turn off the fan if you’re not using it.”
“The TV is on and no one’s in the room—turn it off.”
“Close the door.”
“Stop wasting so much water.”
The son couldn’t stand being corrected over what felt like tiny, meaningless things. It annoyed him deeply, but he endured it—until the day he finally decided to look for a job.
Before leaving for his interview, he told his father: “As soon as I get a job, I’m leaving this city. I’m done listening to lectures.”
His father didn’t argue. He only gave one piece of advice: “During the interview, answer every question confidently. Don’t hesitate.”
When the young man arrived at the company, he noticed something odd—there were no guards at the entrance, and the gate doors were wide open, blocking part of the sidewalk. Without thinking much about it, he closed the gates before walking in.
Inside, the grounds were immaculate. Flowers lined both sides of the walkway. Nearby, a garden hose was left running, water spilling onto the path. The gardener must have forgotten to turn it off. The young man picked up the hose and moved it toward the dry plants.
Remembering that the interview was on the second floor, he slowly climbed the stairs. Even though it was already mid-morning, the hallway lights were still on—probably left on overnight.
He heard his father’s voice in his head: “Why do you leave the room without turning off the lights?”
Irritated, he searched for the switch and turned the lights off.
Upstairs, he entered a large waiting area filled with people. Seeing so many candidates, he wondered if he even had a chance.
Nervously, he stepped toward the interview room—and noticed that the “Welcome” mat was flipped upside down. Annoyed, he straightened it. Old habits die hard.
He watched as one man after another entered the interview room and quickly exited through a different door. No one said a word. When it was finally his turn, he stood before the hiring manager, ready for questions.
The manager took his documents, didn’t even look at them, and asked: “When can you start working?”
The young man froze.
That’s it? he thought. No questions?
The manager smiled and said, “What are you thinking? We don’t ask interview questions here. Questions don’t really show a person’s character. Instead, we observe behavior.”
He continued: “I’ve been watching candidates through our security cameras. Today, no one closed the gate. No one turned off the lights. No one moved the running hose. No one fixed the welcome mat—except you. That’s why we’ve chosen you.”
The son had spent years resenting his father’s discipline. Only then did he realize that it was exactly what earned him his first job. His anger faded. So did the frustration.
Everything parents tell us is meant for our good—for our future. Becoming a responsible, valuable person means accepting guidance, correction, and habits that shape character.
To a child of five, a father is a hero.
At twenty, he’s “old-fashioned.”
And only much later do we understand that a father is often our greatest guide.
In life, aging mothers may move in with their children—but fathers rarely know how to ask for that place.
There’s no point in hurting our parents while they’re alive, only to mourn them once they’re gone.
Treat your parents with respect—while you still can.