For Memorial Day weekend, I booked flights to take my family to Hawaii. But my dad, Richard Bennett, had other ideas. He grabbed my phone, smashed it on the floor, and kicked me hard, knocking me down. Then he grabbed his belt and started whipping me. “You ungrateful parasite!” he roared as the belt struck my skin. “Do you know how much those tickets cost? When I was your age, I jumped freight trains looking for work and got my head cracked open by cops without making a sound!” I screamed, my body covered in welts and bruises. My mom, Catherine Bennett, didn’t lift a finger to help me. Instead, she took out her phone, recorded my pitiful state, and posted the video to our family’s “Happy Together” group chat. Catherine: [Kids these days only think about pleasure. Can’t handle any hardship. Always flying somewhere for fun.] The group chat exploded immediately. My mom’s brother Thomas Whitman: [My daughter works her ass off even with a 103-degree fever.] My mom’s sister Elaine Holloway: [My son spends summer hauling bricks at construction sites to build character.] My dad’s sister Monica Ramsey: [My daughter’s husband takes the whole family to the dump to sort recyclables. While your spoiled daughter is here wasting money on vacations!] They took turns attacking my “spoiled” lifestyle, boasting about how their children thrived through toughness and sacrifice. So the next day, I canceled the tickets. With my beaten, limping leg, I printed out a registration form for “Back-to-Basics Boot Camp” and handed it over with a smile. If they wanted hardship, I’d let them taste the “good old days.” But five days later, they were crying and begging me to pick them up. ***** I opened the “Back-to-Basics Boot Camp” website, reading the program details line by line, each sentence more gut-wrenching than the last. Wake up at 4 AM for physical labor, rationed coarse meals, communal barracks for sleeping, and physical punishment for rule violations. My cursor hovered over the “Ultimate Hardship Package” for a long time. Then I decisively clicked “Confirm.” At breakfast, I slid the printed registration form across the table to Richard and Catherine. “Dad, Mom, choosing Hawaii was wrong,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “You’re right, we should all experience real hardship together.” Catherine’s eyes lit up. She snatched the form, took a photo, and posted it to the family group chat with a message. [Sophie signed us up for a “Taste of Tough Times” boot camp! Who else wants to join? Register now!] Richard smoked his cigarette, flicking ashes onto the stovetop I had just cleaned. He quickly replied to the group. [Like I’ve always said, kids today need a wake-up call. I gave her a good beating yesterday, and now she finally respects her elders.] Relatives swarmed in, flooding the chat with messages. Elaine was first: [We’re barely making ends meet. My son works hauling bricks in summer for extra cash. We can’t afford fancy vacations.] Monica’s voice message dripped with sarcasm. “Must be nice having the time and money to play around. Some of us have real responsibilities.” Richard and Catherine’s egos inflated from the provocation. Richard puffed out his chest and announced, “Since everyone’s so eager, let’s rent a bus and make this a family event. Everyone can taste the hard life!” Catherine hastily agreed, nodding vigorously. “Exactly! And Sophie will foot the bill—it’s time she showed some gratitude!” My heart sank. With over twenty relatives in the group, the cost would easily reach five figures. “Mom, I don’t have that kind of money,” I said with a trembling voice. “You can’t just—”
I caught my breath. I had only intended for the older generation—those who constantly droned on about the “hard times”—to experience this. Dragging the entire family into it wasn’t part of the plan. I carefully replied in the group chat: [Everyone’s busy, right? Probably don’t have time for a trip.] But Richard wasn’t buying it. My attempt to dodge Thomas’s proposal had clearly angered him. “Don’t tell us how to raise our children,” he snapped. “This is a rare opportunity for all of you to learn some resilience. No one is allowed to miss it.” Catherine immediately chimed in: [Missing this would be an insult to the entire family!] I watched as likes popped up one after another in the chat, then silently turned off my phone. These stubborn old folks wouldn’t budge no matter what I said. Then Thomas called, excitement evident in his voice. His son Ethan Whitman had come home, and he wanted us to stop by his house for a gathering to discuss the details of the training camp. Richard agreed on the spot. Catherine yanked open my closet, and the musty smell of mothballs hit me in the face. For many Christmases, whenever I used my own salary to buy new clothes, she would scold me for “wasting money.” Once, she even tore apart all the clothes I had bought right in front of me to “teach me a lesson.” Now, my closet contained only worn-out secondhand clothes. I rummaged through and picked out the least tattered shirt. Catherine nodded with satisfaction. “Better to keep it simple. We don’t want your uncle thinking we’ve gone soft and forgotten our roots.” I held back a laugh. How amusing that they didn’t hesitate to spend my salary on renting a bus, but now they were all about “staying humble.” At Thomas’s house, a decoration reading “Hard Work, Perseverance” hung in the living room. My aunt Linda Whitman bustled about, setting up two distinctly different tables. The large round table was laden with steaks, roast chicken, and wine. The small square table was pushed to the side, with only a few hard dinner rolls and a plate of watery vegetables. I frowned, but Linda beamed at me. “Sophie, come try the ‘Taste of Tough Times’ meal I prepared for you and Ethan!” Before I could respond, Richard pushed me forward. “Go on, tell your uncle about this project you’ve arranged.” I rattled off the details in one breath: waking up at 4 AM for physical labor, rationed food, communal dormitories. Thomas slammed down his wine glass. “You call that hardship?” he roared. “Back in my day, I was shoveling manure at three in the morning!” His outburst startled Ethan, whose hand jerked, dropping his fork with a sharp clatter. Ethan had grown up under Thomas’s iron fist, either being yelled at or beaten, constantly indoctrinated with the “Spare the rod, spoil the child” philosophy. The guy was terrified of his father. After a few bites, Ethan put down his utensils and muttered, “I have exams next week, might need to study…” Thomas smashed his plate to the floor, shattering it. “You want to sneak off while your elders are still eating? Sit back down!” Ethan shrank back into his chair, lowering his head. After dinner, I was assigned to wash the dishes. Ethan slipped into the kitchen, complaining in a low voice, “Sophie, what the hell? This training camp was your lousy idea, and now we’re all being dragged into it.” I remembered what my cousin Clara Whitman had told me. She had tried reasoning with Thomas, saying times had changed and there was no need to make children relive past hardships. But Thomas wouldn’t listen. He was determined to force Ethan—a kid preparing for his SATs—to “experience the struggles of our generation.” I turned on the faucet, letting the water noise cover our conversation, and pulled out my phone. I opened the “Ultimate Hardship Package” page and grinned. “You don’t want to go, right? They think it’s not tough enough? Well, I have a plan…” Ethan glanced at the training camp description. His expression shifted from fear to disbelief, finally settling on a strange, almost excited look. That night, I sent a message to the family group chat: [Due to high demand, the bus is fully booked. To ensure the elders get the full experience, I’ll lead the younger generation in a separate free hardship program. We’ll go our separate ways and meet at the destination after five days.]
The family group chat erupted with complaints from the elders. Thomas shouted the loudest: “Separate? No way! You kids need someone watching you, otherwise you’ll just slack off and fool around!” Richard glared at me, his voice low and suspicious: “What scheme are you cooking up now?” I was prepared and replied calmly. “The boot camp heard that the elders wanted an authentic nostalgia trip, so they upgraded it to the ‘Silver Years Special’ package. A five-stop journey, going back in time from the 90s Christmas era all the way to the 50s Christmas era. You’re practically going to time travel.” The group chat exploded instantly. Monica couldn’t contain herself: “I’m going to wear overalls and a headscarf—perfect for Instagram photos!” Thomas chimed in: “Sophie, keep an eye on those little troublemakers, and don’t forget to send video updates!” Watching the conversation shift, I smiled slightly and typed: “No problem.” On Memorial Day, the whole family met at the gathering point, dragging enough luggage to sink a ship. “Sophie!” Catherine yelled at me while hauling an enormous suitcase. “Come help! These are all essentials!” I glanced at the suitcase. Thermos bottles, bags of snacks, and even a portable massager. I held back my laughter. Bring whatever you want—it’ll all be confiscated soon anyway. After confirming everyone had arrived, a dilapidated bus puttered up. The paint was peeling, and faded “Hard Work, Perseverance” stickers covered the windows. Richard wrinkled his nose. “What kind of junk is this? No air conditioning?” I shrugged. “Dad, this is all my salary can afford.” He scoffed. “Then you should get a second job. What’s a little hardship in your Christmas generation?” I didn’t bother responding. Since I started working, more than half my monthly salary went to my family. The rest, I saved bit by bit. After everyone boarded, I approached Dale Ward, the boot camp coordinator. “My relatives are here to suffer. Please give them the VIP treatment.” Dale gave me a knowing smile. “Don’t worry, our ‘Taste of Tough Times’ travel agency specializes in this.” The door slammed shut. I stood outside, waving with a bright smile. “Have fun!” As the bus rumbled away, I took out my phone and opened the “Back-to-Basics Boot Camp” livestream. On screen, Dale was rallying the group through a loudspeaker. “Everyone, our first stop is a 90s-era bar to relive the good old days!” Upon arrival, Dale led them into a campsite decorated with flickering lights, yellowed boy band posters, and a clunky rotary jukebox. The elders went wild. “The 90s were the best!” Richard shouted, grabbing the microphone. “I was busy with business then, hitting the bars every night!” He belted out an off-key grunge rock song, his voice hoarse but refusing to stop. Thomas climbed onto a coffee table, attempting to dance disco, nearly splitting his pants. Catherine stared at her phone, posting dozens of Instagram stories: “This is real nostalgia!” The livestream comment section exploded. “This doesn’t look like a boot camp, it’s an old folks’ rave!” “Uncle Thomas is dancing like he’s being electrocuted, his pants are about to burst!” “‘Hard Work, Perseverance’? More like ‘1999 Party Madness’!” I chuckled, typing in the comments: “Just wait, the real show is coming.” Three hours later, Dale led them to a dilapidated farmyard. Faded slogans covered the crumbling mud walls, with rusty pitchforks piled in the corner. Dale’s voice changed, becoming stern. “Alright, everyone, the real lesson begins now. Hand over all your personal belongings—immediately!” Catherine was the first to break down, clutching her suitcase like a lifeline. “Impossible! I need these things!” Dale stood in the center of the farm, expressionlessly pointing at her snacks and massager. “These are decadent luxuries! Sugar-coated traps!” Richard reluctantly removed his watch, muttering, “It’s just a watch, why make such a big deal?” I stared at the livestream, holding back laughter. Richard actually said “just a watch.” When I once saved up for a basic calculator, he called me a hopeless idiot who would never amount to anything. “Richard! Step forward!” Dale’s voice cracked like a whip. “That attitude is the worst form of self-indulgence! Run ten laps around the yard—now!” Richard’s face froze. Under everyone’s gaze, he had no choice but to start jogging, his pride trailing behind him. Finally, all their phones, backpacks, and suitcases were confiscated. The staff even found the lighter Richard had hidden in his sock. Dale’s voice was ice-cold. “From now on, call me Mr. Ward. You will complete all five stations—no one gets to quit halfway. Those are the rules.” I sprawled across the leather couch in the living room—the one I was never allowed to touch—and propped up my tablet to watch the livestream. The comment section was exploding. [These folks love bragging about resilience, but when they actually face hardship, they all want to run.] [This is just the beginning. They’re complaining about losing their stuff, wait until things get really tough.] I stretched lazily, enjoying the rare opportunity to hog the couch. In the livestream, Dale waved a metal megaphone. “Work assignments! Men shovel manure, women take hoes to the field!” Thomas stared at the manure bucket, his face turning green. “I’m a retired executive of a global company!” Dale handed him the bucket. “Executives lead by example. Ten buckets before you eat.” Once they all went to work, I hummed a tune while raiding the refrigerator. Richard and Catherine’s stockpile of gourmet fruit? All mine now. I filled a plate with strawberries and wandered over to Catherine’s vanity, sampling her high-end creams one by one. My phone buzzed. Ethan messaged: [Sophie! Quick—they’re about to eat!] The livestream cut to the cafeteria. The elders lined up with metal trays, receiving portions of coarse bread and watery vegetables. Linda gagged after one bite. “This stuff? Even pigs wouldn’t eat it!” Dale slammed the table. “Wasting food? People starved to death in the 60s!” Linda argued, “But we’re experiencing the 90s! Why bring up the 60s?” Dale smirked. “The decade doesn’t matter. You’re here to taste hardship. Complain again and you’ll skip dinner.” The comment section exploded: [This isn’t a training camp, it’s a labor reform school!] [Hypocrisy alert! They call kids spoiled, but they can’t even swallow a piece of bread!] [Oh, now you care about “decades”? Then stop forcing your outdated lectures on others!] The elders sat with mud-stained faces, glumly gnawing on dry bread. Catherine muttered, “The spinning wheel gave me bloody blisters. Even textile factories aren’t this cruel.” Richard sighed, “Eating this stuff? How are we supposed to have energy to work? I paid good money to come here, surely there must be real food.” Catherine’s eyes lit up. “What do you have in mind?” I drifted to the liquor cabinet and took out Richard’s treasured whiskey—once when I accidentally knocked it over, he made me kneel for three hours as punishment. I raised the bottle toward the livestream with a grin. “To my dear elders. I’ll drink first. You enjoy your ‘fun’ at your leisure.” That night, I sank into the bathtub after pouring in half a bag of Catherine’s luxury bath salts. While soaking, my phone suddenly rang. I answered, puzzled. Richard’s voice came through, trembling and tearful. “Sophie, I was wrong. No more fake hardship, please. Come get us, or I’m finished!”
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