I never told my son-in-law that I was the most feared Drill Sergeant in Marine history. He forced my pregnant daughter to scrub the floors while he played video games. “Miss a spot and you don’t eat,” he sneered. I couldn’t take it anymore. I kicked the power cord, shutting off his game. He jumped up, furious. “You crazy old fool!” Before he could blink, I had him pinned against the wall by his throat, feet dangling off the floor. “Listen closely, maggot,” I growled. “Boot camp starts now.”

She sat.

I turned back to Derek. I pointed to the scrub brush on the floor.

“You wanted the floor clean? Excellent initiative, Private. Get on your knees.”

“No way,” Derek tried to muster some defiance. “This is my house. You can’t—”

I took a step forward. Just one step. But the violence radiating off me was palpable. It was a heat wave.

Derek dropped to his knees.

“Start scrubbing,” I commanded. “Baseboards first. Then the grout. If I see a speck of dust, you start over. Move!”

For the next four hours, I dismantled him.

I didn’t hit him again. I didn’t have to. I used the tools of my trade: sleep deprivation, physical exhaustion, and psychological deconstruction.

“Is that a tear, Private?” I shouted as he scrubbed the hallway. “Are you crying? Your wife is carrying your child, carrying the future of your bloodline, and you are crying because your knees hurt?”

“My back hurts,” Derek whined, sweat dripping from his nose.

“Your back hurts?” I kicked the bucket, splashing water over his expensive gaming jersey. “Restart! Top to bottom! Faster!”

He scrubbed. He wept. He cleaned the kitchen, the bathroom, the living room.