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My son went to bed at eleven and I opened his laptop at eleven fifteen. I had been doing this since April. Not helping with his job applications, but instead doing them. He would finish two in an afternoon and go and sit in the backyard, and I would get up and do eight more once he was asleep. He is twenty-three, he has a good degree, and he had been home since November. By June there was a folder on my desktop called Ollie with eleven versions of his resume in it, one for each kind of role, and I would pick whichever was closest and rewrite the top third. He never knew. That is the part I am not proud of. What stopped me was my sister asking whether I was helping him, or doing it so that I would not have to sit with how it felt. I did not have an answer for her. So I paid for something instead, and I made him set it up himself while I sat there and watched. It reads the job, writes an application for that specific job, and he approves every one before it goes anywhere. It is not firing the same document at four hundred companies, which is what I assumed it was and what I would not have paid for. He sent sixty-two in his first week. I sent none. He has two interviews on Thursday, and I found out the way a parent is supposed to find out, which is that he came and told me.