The only jobs kids have are to do well in school, to be charming

Host:
The kitchen was filled with the low hum of a refrigerator, the slow tick of an old clock, and the faint scent of coffee gone cold. Outside, the rain tapped gently against the window — not insistent, but rhythmic, like a reminder that time keeps moving whether you answer or not.

The light above the table was soft, a small pendant lamp casting golden circles across the wood. Two mugs sat there — one half-empty, one untouched. The kind of setting where truths tend to slip out more easily than expected.

Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers interlaced. His grey eyes were distant but steady, like a man remembering his own teenage defiance. Across from him, Jeeny sat with her hands wrapped around her mug, steam curling up into her thoughtful face.

A few seconds passed in silence — the kind of silence that isn’t uncomfortable, but heavy with the things people are finally ready to say.

Jeeny:
“You know,” she began quietly, “Gene Simmons once said, ‘The only jobs kids have are to do well in school, to be charming and polite, and be thankful. That’s it. I’ll house you, protect you, I’ll even give my life for you, and in return, you will behave.’”

Jack:
He gave a dry laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah. Sounds like something every father wants to say but doesn’t.”

Jeeny:
She smiled faintly. “Or maybe something every teenager needs to hear but won’t.”

Host:
Her voice carried a calm weight, like rain on glass — gentle, but impossible to ignore.

Jack:
“I don’t know,” he said, leaning back. “It sounds… transactional. Like love with a contract.”

Jeeny:
“No,” she said softly. “It sounds like structure. Like love that knows its own boundaries. Not the soft kind that spoils — the kind that keeps the roof from collapsing.”

Host:
A pause. The clock ticked on, patient and unbothered by human contradictions.

Jack:
“You really think gratitude should be demanded?”

Jeeny:
“Not demanded,” she said. “Modeled. Expected, yes — but not as repayment. As recognition. There’s a difference.”

Jack:
He tilted his head. “Recognition of what?”

Jeeny:
“Of effort,” she said. “Of sacrifice. Kids forget that love isn’t magic — it’s maintenance. Every meal, every late night, every quiet worry at 3 a.m. That’s the price of protection. Gratitude is how you say, I see it.”

Jack:
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “When I was a teenager, I didn’t see anything. Just rules. Just authority trying to box me in.”

Jeeny:
“And now?”

Jack:
He hesitated. “Now I think maybe the box was keeping me safe from myself.”

Host:
Her eyes softened, the way one does when someone finally says something honest. The rain outside slowed, the sound thinning to a whisper.

Jeeny:
“You know what I think?” she said. “Kids don’t understand gratitude until they’ve had to protect someone themselves. Until they’ve been on the other side of the promise.”

Jack:
“You mean parenthood?”

Jeeny:
“Or love,” she said. “Any kind that costs you something.”

Jack:
He nodded slowly. “So you think Simmons is right — that kids owe behavior, gratitude, obedience?”

Jeeny:
“They owe respect,” she said. “Not out of fear, but awareness. It’s the foundation of every kind of relationship. You can’t build anything lasting on entitlement.”

Host:
Her words hung there, visible almost, shimmering with quiet conviction.

Jack:
“Maybe that’s the problem,” he said. “We teach kids to chase independence before they understand interdependence.”

Jeeny:
“Exactly,” she said. “They think freedom is the absence of guidance. But real freedom comes from gratitude — from knowing what’s been given so you can carry it forward, not waste it.”

Jack:
He chuckled quietly. “You sound like you’d make a terrifying parent.”

Jeeny:
“Oh, I’d be fair,” she said, smiling. “But I’d expect them to say thank you — not out of manners, but mindfulness.”

Host:
A small smile tugged at Jack’s lips. It wasn’t mockery — it was memory.

Jack:
“You know,” he said, “my father used to say something like that. ‘I don’t need you to love me yet,’ he’d tell me. ‘Just don’t forget that I’m giving you my life piece by piece.’ I didn’t understand what he meant until… years later.”

Jeeny:
“What changed?”

Jack:
“I became him,” he said quietly. “Working, worrying, giving, without thanks. And suddenly I realized that gratitude isn’t just about manners — it’s about visibility. Everyone just wants to be seen.”

Jeeny:
She nodded. “Exactly. Gratitude is love spoken out loud.”

Host:
A long silence followed — the good kind, full of reflection, not regret. The rain had stopped completely now. A few drops clung to the glass, trembling like unspoken words.

Jeeny:
“You know what’s funny?” she said, smiling slightly. “Even when Gene Simmons says something that sounds hard-edged, there’s love underneath it. Fierce, protective love.”

Jack:
“He’s saying — I’ll give everything to keep you safe. All I ask in return is that you respect the gift.”

Jeeny:
“Yes,” she said softly. “That’s not tyranny. That’s stewardship. A parent’s job is to hold the world steady until their children can hold it themselves.”

Jack:
“And a child’s job,” he said, “is to notice that the world was already being held for them.”

Jeeny:
She smiled. “Now you sound like the parent.”

Host:
The light flickered across his face — the kind of glow that softens even the hardest edges.

Jack:
“You know what I think?” he said. “Maybe gratitude is the only inheritance that actually grows in value.”

Jeeny:
“Because it keeps you connected,” she said. “To the people who raised you, to the ones who come after. It’s the thread that keeps the family from unraveling.”

Jack:
He nodded slowly. “And that’s what Simmons was really saying — behave, not because I demand obedience, but because I gave you everything I could. And someday, you’ll understand what that cost.”

Jeeny:
“And when they do,” she said, “they’ll stop seeing rules as chains, and start seeing them as promises.”

Host:
The clock ticked again — not loudly, but with the rhythm of something that had witnessed it all before.

Host:
The room fell into a deep, comforting stillness. The lamp hummed softly, the rain clouds began to part, and a faint stripe of moonlight slipped across the floor.

In that stillness, Gene Simmons’ words seemed to echo through the quiet space — stern yet tender, pragmatic yet human:

“The only jobs kids have are to do well in school, to be charming and polite, and be thankful. That’s it. I’ll house you, protect you, I’ll even give my life for you, and in return, you will behave.”

Because maybe that’s the unspoken contract of love —
not control,
not perfection,
but exchange.

I give you shelter.
You give me respect.
I hand you the world.
You promise not to take it for granted.

Host:
And as the light dimmed to a hush, Jack lifted his mug, finally taking a sip of the cold coffee, and smiled faintly.

“Maybe,” he said, “love really is just discipline with grace.”

Jeeny looked up, her eyes soft, certain.
“No,” she said. “Love is grace — with boundaries strong enough to make it last.”

And outside, the moonlight finally broke through the clouds,
spilling across the table like a quiet blessing.