My teenage son promised to pay my home rent. I agreed grudgingly. After months, I realized his room was locked, unusual for him. No one answered my knock. I jimmied the latch and unlocked it to find a clean, orderly chamber, unlike his normal chaos.

A desk with a stack of papers and a laptop with rows of numbers and graphs sat in the corner. Wondering what my son was hiding, I was intrigued and confused. I softly shouted his name, looking for an explanation or reassurance.