“Why am I the only 17-year-old in the history of the world who has to work for their own spending money?”

The room is filled with the sort of silence you can almost see, like an invisible fog creeping between us, silently spreading an air of discomfort.

And then Ahuva breaks it with a bang. “EXCUSE me?”

Yerachmiel’s eyes do that thing where it looks like he’s replaced their normal blue with bits of steel. My daughter immediately softens her tone.

“I mean, I’m confused.”

Nice save.

“Why,” she continues, “am I the only 17-year-old in the history of the world who has to work for their own spending money?”

In the history of the world. Wow, that’s extensive. I almost break my silence to snort, but that would not help anyone. I made a decision, and Yerachmiel, smart good man that he is, is backing me one hundred percent. I’m not even sure Ahuva realizes that I’m the one who initiated this, and I’m glad about that. Not in a cowardly way — of course I’m not scared of my 17-year-old — but just in a “Ma and Ta are one team” kind of way.

I think back to where this started and mentally shake my head for the ten thousandth time. Aviva had told me she was planning a surprise party for her best friend, Rena, and silly me had imagined party streamers and pizza, and had willingly handed over my credit card. So of course, I had called fraud alert when I saw charges at Salt. How was I to know that “everyone made parties like that?”

Look, I’m used to her shopping sprees and keeping up with the Joneses. I also enjoy nice things and the occasional treat, but more than that, it’s part of raising kids in today’s society. But this was too much. And the realization was stark: My precious eldest had zero concept of financial responsibility.

She clearly thinks it’s draconian, but deciding she’d have to earn her camp spending money just sat right with me, and Yerachmiel agreed. Now, my husband pushes his tongue into his top lip, so it bulges out like a monkey. It’s his “I’m trying to breathe through my annoyance” face.

“I highly doubt that you are the only seventeen-year-old working for spending money, Huvs. Either way, this is what Mommy and I decided. Spending money has to come from you. Canteen money, trips to Walmart, tips, any orders, all yours.”

Ahuva looks at me imploringly, but I just nod firmly.

She stalks out of the room.

I look at Yerachmiel.

He looks at me.

“Teenagers,” I say, “are exhausting.”