I grew up in the passenger seat of that van. School breaks, days off — I was riding along, watching him work, learning what it means to do the job right. When I was old enough, I stopped just riding along and started working beside him — not as the owner’s son, but as someone who had to prove himself. I earned my stripes squeezing through dirty crawlspaces, flushing sludge out of multifamily units, and sweating through 140-degree attics in the Valley. My dad didn’t lower the bar for me. He made me climb over it.