The more I watch Ahuva out in the wild, the more I’m convinced I’m doing the right thing. She has my car basically at her beck and call as long as I can get to and from my appointments — I do faces, so I can be pretty flexible, and it works out that Ahuva, who still loves driving, can do the boys’ afternoon carpool. Now, I notice how she comes home from school every single day with some sort of takeout food swinging from her hand, be it a roll of sushi, a croissant, a milkshake, or her favorite iced latte. Either way, she’s spending between $10 and $20 every day for absolutely no reason. The more I look, the more I see, and the more I’m unhappy with what I’m seeing.

Of course, I’m still footing the bill for all that, but that’s not what’s bothering me; $20 isn’t going to get me very far. It’s just that a little fiscal responsibility can go a long way. Maybe earning her own money will teach her the value of $20….

I call her about ten minutes before I’m done with the Steins — oldest daughter’s wedding, and they had lots of girls, bless them. Ahuva is waiting at the curb when I open the front door.

“This is ridiculous,” she says by way of greeting, taking a long sip of iced coffee. In the past, she’d have held out the cup to me. Now, I’m afraid to pick it up.

I look at her silently.

“Ma! I can’t! I have tests, I have GO, and now I’m also tutoring sixth graders and babysitting the Friedman twins. Plus I do carpool twice a week! I cannot do this one more second. It’s like you want me to be an adult and a kid at the same time. I’m literally falling apart!”

I tilt my head, thinking how this “kid” has told me that she wants to start shidduchim as soon as she gets back from sem. So in two years she’s supposed to go from infant to wife? Not on my watch.

“Good to see you, too, Ahuva. My day went well, thank you for asking.”

I don’t exactly see her roll her eyes, but I feel like I can hear them as she drops me off at home and zooms off to her next thing.

Later, Yerachmiel comes in, all smiles and humming “Abba, Abba, Tatte, Tatte…” which would be adorable, except that I’m annoyed. Mainly because he didn’t stop me from putting myself in this situation. Ahuva was all smiley and fun until two weeks ago. Plus, when I didn’t notice her extraneous purchases, they never bothered me.

“Why,” I practically whine at him, “did you let me decide this was a good idea?”

He actually guffaws at that, which is interesting, because not many people guffaw these days.

“I was supposed to stop you? Uh, Gayil, have you met you?”

Hilarious.

I need three Advil and a cold drink.

“Huvs, can you swing by the dry cleaners and pick up my blazer?”

I squint as the tornado known as my daughter swirled past. “Sorry, Ma, I’m late for babysitting at Grossberg!”

And when I text her during a break in faces, Client went late — pick up pizza on your way to get me?

I’m so tired from tutoring, can I skip?

And then one day she texts me that her job is running late and she won’t be able to do carpool. And I’m left calling in last-minute favors that I don’t know I’ll be able to return.

I’m losing my mind. None of this was worth it, I decide in one wild moment of self-doubt. None of it. I’m handing her $500 and begging her to revert to her old self.

No. No, I’m not. Gayil, get a grip!

She finally gets home, sans milkshake — thankfully, or I’d really have lost it — and breezes into the kitchen all sweet smiles.

“Ma, can we go to Fuchsia after school tomorrow? We have an early day, and they’re having a sale.”

By sale, she means they’ve reduced the prices to manageable instead of astronomical. But I happen to want to go to the Fuchsia sale myself. Ahuva needs Shabbos outfits — we’d only found two things Pesach time — and I need some comfy work clothes that won’t embarrass my children when I leave the house. And maybe a little shopping will smooth things out a bit so Ahuva stops acting so miserably. A part of me wants to demand that she act like a mensch without the allure of shopping, but nobody ever stopped being a brat because their mother told them to. Even a 17-year-old who has taken to slamming drawers and cabinets with excessive force, storming in and out of the house like she has her own rain clouds, and generally being supremely unhelpful in every way.

“Okay, I think I can go after my bar mitzvah party, it’s only three faces,” I say. I’d scheduled them for late morning. “But aren’t you busy in the afternoon?” I ask pointedly.

She smiles beatifically. “I cleared my schedule.”

“I’m done,” I tell my sister-in-law Perry over our Wednesday morning coffee and grocery stock up date. “Done, done, done. She is never around. My car is permanently parked at the Friedmans and the Grossbergs, and last week, when the Feiners threw in a last-minute face — the grandmother came in looking like a witch after whoever did her makeup, don’t ask — I literally had to ask Mr. Feiner for a ride home. I was dying. This is literally not worth it for me. I’d rather tell her she can work for me instead.”

Perry sips her cold foam latte and looks at me. “So why don’t you?”

I shrug. “I can’t just change my mind like that. I think this is the right thing, and Yerachmiel agrees. But if you think I’m going crazy, you should see Ahuva. She is not happy.”

Perry makes a face. “Not to be dramatic or anything, Gayil, but it kind of sounds like this grand plan is ruining your life. I do hear your points, but Shloimy’s very against kids working for money. He feels like they grow up so quickly and have a lifetime of responsibility ahead of them.”

Which I also totally hear, but also, can you just not?

“Wow, look at the time,” I say. “Gotta run to my bar mitzvah, see you later.”

The bar mitzvah’s boy’s sister has the cutest freckles; I smile at her as I blend, my fingers moving by rote.

Is Perry — or Shloimy, that is — right? Am I putting unnecessary responsibility on Ahuva to be involved in finances when life is going to come for her eventually?

It’s a Tziri day — most of my clients book either Tziri Fish or Lani Pollak for hair, and I love them both, but Tziri is actually my age and Lani is around ten years younger, so not to be ageist, but I’m glad I have Tziri to bounce my thoughts off of.

She wrinkles her nose at me. “Hon, my kids have my father on speed dial. Making the call is their way of working for money.”

I groan. Tziri’s mentioned this in the past. Oh well. I laugh then.

Heaven knows I knew nothing about finances before I got married either, but then again, my biggest spend had been that Donna Karan suit I’d wanted for Pesach when I was 18, not a party for five in the most expensive restaurant in town — for a 17-year-old’s birthday.

Ahuva is on the phone when I get home. “… mortifying. I have no social life anymore, and did you know it’s literally uncomfortable when someone hands you money? Like, what are you supposed to do? Stick it in your pocket? Count it? I mean, it’s not hard to find the money, people are desperate for babysitters, but it’s sooooo boring….”

“Hey, Huvs,” I say, trying not to cringe too openly at her conversation. My child is genuinely a spoiled brat, and while she’s also really good — she dresses tzniyusdig, she davens, she learns shemiras halashon every night — it’s somewhat sobering to realize that.

We stop for sushi to go — three faces can make a woman starving — but we’re in a rush if we want to have time to actually shop. Then we head to Fuchsia, and maybe it’s the promise of new clothing, but suddenly the old Ahuva is back, schmoozing as though the past few weeks and her phone call from ten minutes ago were a dream. Ahuva is a great schmoozer; she keeps me updated on everything going on at school. We laugh until we cry as she describes the ninth graders falling for Senior Prank and showing up with their favorite stuffed animal, and I don’t know what comes over me — the promise of a happy child, the shopping dopamine spike, or Perry’s words stuck in my head — but as we pull into Fuchsia’s parking lot, I suddenly hear myself saying, “Ahuva, how much money have you made so far? Ta and I will match whatever it is, okay?”

She shrieks and falls on me in a hug, and I have to say, I kind of feel like I got the best of both worlds: a fiscally responsible daughter and one who actually likes me.

Ahuva tries on a stunning floral dress; it looks gorgeous with her skin tone, and I get a nod of approval over my dress and cardigan set — so super lightweight and creamy soft, I can almost ignore the mortgage rate — when Chana Singer and her daughter Shira walk by. Chana! The Singers had been our next-door neighbors for almost seven years before they moved a few neighborhoods away, and Ahuva used to follow Shira, one year older, like a little shadow. Shira is one of those genuinely happy girls, who seem like they roll out of bed with a smile on their face. I’ve always loved her.

“Look who’s here,” I say, giving Chana an air kiss. Ahuva and Shira immediately start comparing clothing piles. Chana rolls her eyes. “They should have the number for a loan gemach on the price tags.”

I laugh, because it’s true.

“Last thing I’m buying her for the summer, and everything else, Shira is going to be earning herself. Right, Shiri?” she calls over her shoulder.

Shira nods, smiling. “Thanks, Ma! Yeah, I’d much rather pay for Walmart baseball caps than a Fuchsia dress.”

“Oh, me, too,” Chana mutters.

I’m no longer laughing. I look at Ahuva, who is determinedly looking anywhere else but at me.

The only 17-year-old in history, huh?

I pay for the clothes, and we drive home in silence. Ahuva tries to talk several times, but I just hold up my hand. I’m not ready. When we pull into the driveway, she gets out and walks inside slowly, the Fuchsia bag swinging from her hand, and I’m left wondering if I made a huge mistake. And if I did, where did I go wrong?

Shloimy’s very against working for money. My kids have my father on speed dial…. Yes, her jobs were cutting into my needs and her dramatic reaction to my idea was annoying to live with, but did I rob her of a very important lesson? Or is my daughter really right, and it’s Chana Singer who’s the anomaly? Okay, there’s still the money she earned, but…. Plus, I need to tell Yerachmiel what I did.

I lay my head on the steering wheel, moaning softly. Do I go back on my matching promise? Or am I already too inconsistent? How do I fix this?

Contribute to this column as a Second Guesser! Email your response, including your name as you want it to appear, to familyfirst@mishpacha.com with Second Guessing in the subject.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 899)