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My parents had this rule that I couldn't play video games until all my homework was "completely finished and checked." What they didn't specify was who had to do the checking.

Mom and Dad were obsessed with my grades after my older brother barely graduated high school. They implemented a system where I had to present my completed homework every night at 6 PM sharp for their inspection before I could touch my PlayStation.

The problem was their "inspection" took forever. Dad would sit there questioning every answer like he was defending a dissertation. "Are you sure this is right? Did you double-check your math? What about this word—is that spelled correctly?" Mom would make me rewrite entire paragraphs if my handwriting wasn't "neat enough."

What should have been a five-minute check turned into an hour-long interrogation. By the time they finished, dinner was ready, then family time, then bed. I never got to play games on school nights.

But they said homework had to be "completely finished and checked"—they never said they had to be the ones checking it.

I started a homework checking business at school. For $2, I'd verify that someone's homework was complete and accurate. For $2, they'd do the same for me. I even made official-looking certificates: "This homework has been thoroughly reviewed and approved by Jake Morrison, Certified Academic Reviewer."

That first night, I marched into the kitchen at 6 PM with my math homework and Sarah Chen's signed certificate confirming it was "completely finished and checked."

"What's this?" Dad asked, squinting at the certificate.

"My homework is completely finished and checked, just like you required," I said. "Sarah's very thorough. She found two errors and made me fix them."

Mom grabbed the certificate. "This is ridiculous. We meant checked by us."

"That's not what the rule says," I replied. "You said completely finished and checked. It's both."

They spent twenty minutes arguing about the technicality while I calmly set up my PlayStation.

By week two, I had expanded the business. Tommy Rodriguez became my "English Specialist," Maria Santos handled "Science Review," and Alex Kim was our "History Expert." Each subject required a different certified checker for maximum thoroughness.

I'd arrive home with a folder full of certificates, homework verified by multiple academic professionals. "Math: Checked and approved by Tommy Rodriguez. English: Thoroughly reviewed by Maria Santos. Science: Inspected and validated by Alex Kim."

"This is getting out of hand," Mom said, flipping through my certificates. "You're supposed to show us your homework."

"I am showing you," I said. "Along with proof that it's been checked by qualified reviewers. The rule doesn't specify who checks it, just that it must be checked."

Dad tried changing the rule to "checked by parents," but I was ready. I started a Parent Homework Helper service where other kids' parents would check my work in exchange for me organizing their children's backpacks or helping with other tasks.

Mrs. Peterson from down the street became my regular "parental checker." She'd review my homework while I helped her son organize his binder. Her signed certificates read: "Verified by Mrs. Peterson, Certified Parent and Former Teacher."

"She's technically a parent checking homework," I explained when they protested. "Plus she used to teach fourth grade, so she's more qualified than most parents."

The final straw was when I brought home a certificate signed by my grandmother during her weekly visit. "Checked and approved by Grandma Rose, Parent of Parent."

Mom threw her hands up. "Fine! Play your games! But next year, the rule is I check your homework personally."

"That's fair," I said, already planning how to convince her that spot-checking was more efficient than line-by-line review.

The homework checking business made me $47 that semester.