S

he did. Or so she said.

But also… she came home that first week a lot later than I’d expected.

“Chaya? That you?”

I looked up from the couch, where I’d been sorting through some papers. A moment later, Chaya came into the room, flopping down across from me, still wearing her jacket.

“Oh my gossshhh,” she exhaled. “I’m wiiiiiped!”

I glanced up. She looked happy, sort of, but also like she couldn’t move.

After a moment, she sat up. “It was fun. I guess. Just — it’s a big group. I’m the only assistant. And Sara wasn’t in the room most of the time, so I was like, basically running the show.” She yawned. “The girls were fine, mostly, they were, like, all excited to make rocky road bars, it was so cute. But they all needed help, and had so many questions, and I didn’t even know myself where everything was, or how to use the ovens or whatever. I guess it’ll take time.”

“It was just the first week.”

“Right.” Chaya noticed the time. “Wait, I can’t believe how late it is! I thought I’d be home ages ago, and I have a ton of homework. But Sara told us part of the job is cleaning up after, and the kitchen was a DISASTER zone. I walked home with Faigy, she did arts and crafts and had to vacuum up loads of glitter and stuff. But the girls who did the singing and dancing and other clubs left way earlier than we did.”

“Mm.” That didn’t sound so fair to me. But I didn’t say anything — yet.

“Sara told me to stop earlier next time so the girls can clean up with me. I guess I’ll try that.”

“Makes sense.” I stood up and stretched. Chaya seemed okay, she was already on to the next thing — riffling through her bag and taking out her homework planner. “So, did you bring any home for us to sample?”

“What — the bars?” Chaya wrinkled her nose. “No way am I eating anything that comes out of that kitchen. Ma! I can’t believe you let me eat it when I was in the club. I can’t believe you ate it!”

I laughed. “Now you appreciate me.”

I

didn’t say anything at first.

It was a job, not camp. She’d committed to it, she was getting paid — and she did seem to be handling it okay.

But week after week, the same pattern kept happening — and it was getting worse.

She’d come home late. Wiped. Headache, backache, “Ma, you have no idea how loud that group is.” Or, “the flour was eveeeerrryywhere! Took forever to clean up”. Or even: “Today Sara didn’t even come in, I did the entire thing myself.”

That last one made me… uncomfortable.

She was an assistant, which I had assumed meant that Sara was leading the group, and Chaya would be helping her — assisting the girls one-on-one, handing out supplies, whatever. Not that she’d be the full-fledged leader of the activity with zero support, zero backup, and zero assistance of her own.

And yes, I knew Sara ran a whole lot of programs. But surely she had adults to take the lead, supervise, take charge — didn’t she do that part herself? How did this even work? Surely it hadn’t been like this when my daughters had been in the clubs, had it?

When I asked Chaya, she shrugged. “It’s gone way bigger than when we went. When I did baking group, it was with Sara, and one assistant. And the year Miri did ballet, they had a professional dance teacher lead that group — a woman. But now she has one assistant in all the groups and she goes between them, like starting them off, explaining the activity, whatever. I think maybe there’s someone who oversees all the performing arts — singing, dancing, that stuff. But most of the time, it’s just me in the room. There’s so many groups.”

So that’s what was going on. It was a genius idea — for Sara. The more groups, the more money, and the overhead costs? Insignificant when she was paying high school “assistants” instead of skilled adults to lead the groups.

But that meant… my daughter and her friends were doing all the work of running the groups — without the appropriate pay, and mostly, without any adults in the room.

I thought this was a structured program. Adult-led. The whole reason I’d been so happy for Chaya to work there, and I’d been happy to send there and pay the extra cost for it, was because I didn’t want my daughter in a teen-run club. That was why so many mothers chose Sara’s program: for the reliability, the professionalism. The supervision.

Instead, my daughter and her friends were the ones doing the supervising. And managing the group. And running the activities. And cleaning up, too.

And for what?

I finally asked her that night. “Chaya, how much is she paying you again?”

She told me the number and my jaw dropped.

“That’s it?” I said. “Per hour?”

“Ma….” Chaya made a face. “That’s what she pays, that’s what she’s always paid.”

“No, seriously. That’s not even minimum wage. That’s a babysitting rate from ten years ago.”

“Ma, please.”

“You’re running her group, doing all the prep, managing ten girls, and she’s paying you pocket change—” I stopped. Took a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll stop here. But I want to call her and tell her this isn’t okay and she should pay you girls more for the job you’re doing.”

“No, no, please don’t call.” Chaya scrambled up. “That’s too embarrassing! I don’t need my mother calling to complain for me, it’s legit mortifying. It’s the last thing I need. I’ll… speak to her myself. Or whatever.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Whatever?”

Chaya shrugged. “What should I do, quit the job? It’s so irresponsible. She’ll be so angry. And I want the money. I’m kinda stuck with it now.”

I sat down beside her. This conversation was important, and it was a whole lot bigger than Sara Lieber’s Sunday clubs. It was life skills 101, and I took my role of building up my kids’ skills in the world of business, work, and finances seriously. Too many kids grew up not knowing how to manage money, or deal with a difficult employer, or handle workplace challenges — but if I could guide them through it with the small-scale stuff, camp counselor jobs or small moneymaking ventures, it was a valuable opportunity to educate them and model those skills for life.

“Chaya, sweetie, you’re not stuck. You’re in a difficult position, but you haven’t done anything wrong,” I said. “She hired you as an assistant. But you’re actually running the group — not assisting. And you’re managing it alone, and doing cleanup, and it’s more hours, more stress, and harder work than you were led to believe.”

Chaya made a face. “Okay, when you put it that way.” She shrugged. “What should I do? Make a complaint? Send an email to HR?”

I laughed, because it was funny to hear my teenage daughter speak my language, but actually, I was happy to see that she was picking something up. “Totally. I assume HR is Sara herself though. Seems to be a one-man operation, this thing of hers.”

“Yeah, it is. That’s the whole problem.”

I nodded. “So, you can talk to her. Explain the situation. Explain what you expected when she offered you the job, explain how it’s actually proving to be very different, and then you can make whatever request you think will make it easier.”

“Like…?”

“You tell me.” I had some ideas about this, but I wanted Chaya to think this through for herself. “What would help the job feel more fair, more reasonable? Less crazy intense and exhausting for you?”

“I guess… another assistant for the baking club. Or help with cleanup. Or if she would spend more time in the room.” Chaya stopped. “But she won’t do that. If she has to hire more help, she’ll have to pay double. She won’t agree. Every group has one assistant, she’s really strict about that.”

I was sure she was. After all, this was clearly a great moneymaker for her. Each girl was paying a fortune for the club, Chaya got paid a sliver of that money as her meager “salary,” and all the rest? Straight into Sara’s bank account.

But I wasn’t going to say all that out loud.

“If she doesn’t want to hire an extra assistant, how about you get a raise?” I suggested instead. “You don’t need to ask for double. Just a little higher than what you’re making, something you feel makes it worth your time and effort.”

Chaya bit her lip. “You think?” she asked, looking a little nervous. “I don’t want to sound, like, greedy or anything. It’s just a few weeks in and I’m already complaining….”

“You’re not complaining. You’re saying, now I see what the job involves, I think it’s worth a little more than the salary I’m getting. You can explain, give examples. Even just the fact that cleaning up takes you another hour — that’s a big deal. You should be paid for that time.”

“It doesn’t take me so long. Not anymore.”

“Okay, but it’s still a big responsibility.”

Chaya thought for a moment. “I guess you’re right. I should say something. It’s just getting me frustrated every week.” She stood up, stretched. “Maybe next Sunday. If I can catch her when I’ve finished cleanup. If she hasn’t gone home yet.”

That offhand comment made me mad — why was my daughter scrubbing counters while Sara waltzed off on her Sunday afternoon plans?  — but I reined myself in.

Getting angry at Sara Lieber wasn’t the point.

The point was helping Chaya — not just to handle the club thing, but to learn the skills of being assertive, asking for her worth, recognizing when she was being “used.”

Real skills, for real life.

So this would happen now and not in five years’ time in some office, or in ten years’ time when she would b’ezras Hashem be supporting a family, and would need to know how to stand up for herself in the world.

Whether Sara gave a raise or not was kind of secondary to the learning experience.

“SO,

I did it.”

I looked up. Chaya had just walked in, cheeks a little flushed, I couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or the conversation.

“I spoke to her about the raise. I told her it was much harder than I thought and more hours and that I was kinda running the group.”

“And?”

Chaya’s lips tightened. “She said no. Told me that I knew what the job was and the salary and I agreed to it and she’s sorry but she can’t change it.”

Ouch.

“That’s… a shame, honey.” I waited to see if she had more to say.

“Yeah, well. I told her that I really want a raise in January. And if not then I’m leaving.”

“Really?” I was surprised. Not because I thought she should stay locked in a job that was frustrating her, but because she’d been so adamant that she “had” to stay.

Chaya shrugged. “I thought about it. I do want the money, but you know what, I could do my own Sunday club and get way more money. I’m leading the group anyway. Why should I stay and, like, feel taken advantage of all year?”

“Right,” I said. “And what did Sara say to that?”

“She got… upset,” Chaya admitted. She went to the kettle and flicked it on for a coffee. “But too bad, right? Like you said, I’m not stuck. She can’t make me stay in a job where I’m not getting the money that it’s worth.”

That was all true.

But it was a shame to escalate this far, to have Chaya leave mid-year.

Why couldn’t Sara be more reasonable about paying her teenage staff for the hard work that they were doing?

If I could tell Sara one thing it would be: I’m not trying to make trouble for you, but I am trying to teach my daughter that her work — and her time — matter.

Sara

I love my job.

Well, it’s not really a job. It’s more accurately a business, one that I built and grew from the ground up — from a little arts and crafts club at my kitchen table to a full-scale “Sunday clubs” program with several tracks, ages and groups.

Sometimes, in the middle of the Sunday fun, I’d stand in the hallway and hear music floating out from the dance rooms and singing from the choir groups. There would be happy laughter and chatter from the arts and crafts room and the smell of something yummy from the kitchen. And I’d marvel that my little Sunday fling — trying desperately to make a little more money to help pay our rent, while watching my own little girls — had turned into this: a mini empire of skills building and productive, healthy fun.

It took me a while to figure out a setup that worked — one that didn’t leave me running between rooms with glitter in my hair and dough on my sleeves — but now that I had it, it was great. Perfect. I ran some of the groups myself, with a teenage assistant in each one to handle the room while I was rotating between other groups. For the performing arts, I hired Fraidy — a fabulous actor and dancer who ran lots of high school productions and things like that — and she hired and supervised talented assistants for those groups.

I prepared the program, the supplies, the activities. Fraidy did the scripts, choreography, music tracks, whatever. We explained it to the girls we hired to run the groups, and they ran the activities while we supervised. It was a great setup, efficient and smooth. And we paid them like a real job — we took it seriously, and we wanted them to also.

OF

course, each year, it took time to settle in. There was always the training in, the mishaps, the girls who weren’t a great fit for their group or job, the mothers complaining about this or that, the kid who wanted to switch to be with her friend. One person backing out and ten others begging to join late.

Beginnings are hard, this is normal, I had to keep reminding myself as I negotiated group switches (complicated, because I was very strict about keeping every group very small, to be manageable and give personal attention) and figured out the best systems to run everything smoothly.

This year was particularly challenging as I’d introduced new ballet and voice training groups with specialist teachers. It was an investment — the teachers charged a lot — but we’d had so many requests for those clubs, and I liked to accommodate whatever requests I could. People loved Sunday Sparks, and they liked to send all their girls to the same place each Sunday; it was a big pull. So expanding — more groups, more clubs, more offers — was always a good move.

Still, I was confident that things would settle within a month or two. And then I could enjoy doing what I did best: leading several groups at once, checking in on the different activities, giving some extra attention to girls who needed it, keeping things flowing, and making the kids and parents happy.

Seriously, what isn’t there to love about that job?

F

ive weeks in, I started to breathe easier. Finally, the groups seemed stable, we’d sorted the supplies in the baking room, and even the personality clash in the second dance group — first cousins who really didn’t get along  — seemed to be under control.

So when one of the assistants came over to me after cleanup, I thought she had a question about the next week’s recipe or maybe a reminder that we needed more parchment paper.

But she didn’t. Instead, she cleared her throat, a little nervously. Fidgeting with her charm bracelet.

“Uh, can I talk to you a minute?”

“Sure,” I said, half closing my laptop, where I’d been jotting down notes before locking up for the day. “What’s up?”

She shifted her weight. “I was just wondering… if maybe I could get a raise?”

I blinked. That was not what I’d expected. “A raise?”

“It’s just… the baking group is a lot of work, and cleanup takes forever, and—”

“Hold on,” I said gently, but firmly. “Chaya, we’re five weeks into the program. You agreed to the salary upfront. This is what we pay all assistants, and it’s been the same since the beginning.”

“I know,” she said quickly. “But I didn’t realize how much… running around it would be. Or that I’d be running the whole activity by myself. It’s a lot more than I expected.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What did you think the job was?”

She hesitated. “I thought I’d be helping you. Like, handing out stuff, keeping girls on track. Not… like… being the only one in charge. I’m basically leading the group.”

“Well, you are assisting me,” I said carefully. “I plan the activities. I set up the recipes, the supplies, I come in to start you off. I’m in and out to check on everything. And if something’s wrong, you can always let me know — that’s why I’m here.”

She shrugged. “It’s not that there’s something wrong. It’s just… a lot of work. And… and my mother also said it’s not really fair for what I’m getting paid.”

OH.So it’s the mom.

I felt my stomach tighten.

I hated this, mothers talking to their daughters without me there, turning me into the bad one and encouraging the girls to demand more. Ask for your worth, it isn’t fair, you should be paid more, she probably told Chaya.

But the mother — Estee, I knew her, she’d sent loads of girls to my clubs back in the day — has no idea what it looks like on the management end. The overhead: the premises, the equipment, the bills. The time I spend planning programs and activities for each group, divided by age and skill level. The cost of supplies — if you’ve seen grocery bills recently, you’d understand what it costs to keep a baking kitchen stocked. Sugar, flour, eggs. Chocolate chips and mini marshmallows and whipping cream and fondant.

I invest so much money in the clubs, especially at the beginning of the year. And there’s always more supplies, more vendors, more bills. And there’s the salaries, too — Fraidy, the ballet teacher, the voice training lady, as well as over a dozen teenage assistants. It’s a lot. And it’s a business. If I’d pay Chaya more, I’d have to pay every girl the equivalent, and I’d take a huge hit. A couple dollars more per hour, per assistant would add up fast.

The business wouldn’t even be viable anymore, unless I’d start charging the parents even more — and I know my rates are considered ‘premium’, but once I’ve finished paying all the costs of the program, it doesn’t amount to that much anymore.

I couldn’t explain that to Chaya. All I said was, “I understand that you’d like to be paid more, but that’s not an option right now. If you end up wanting to do the job for a second year, we could talk about it.”

She wasn’t happy.

“Can we reassess in January instead of next year?” she asked.

Reassess, whoa, who’s been teaching her these kinds of negotiating tactics?

Oh, right, her mom.

“I don’t think there’ll be any change by then,” I said.

She bit her lip. “Okay. I just — I’m not sure I’ll continue doing it then. After January,” she clarified. “I just… might want to do something that feels more worth the time.”

O

ver the next two weeks, I started noticing a pattern.

One assistant asked if she could “talk to me about her salary.” Another wanted to know if the rates were “negotiable now that she has experience.” A third asked if she could be switched to a different group — something lighter, like singing maybe, because arts and crafts has so much cleanup.

It didn’t take much to figure it out what was behind the pattern. Or rather, who.

I don’t think Chaya meant to launch a revolution. But she — and her mother — had decided that I didn’t pay enough, that the jobs are too hard for the salary, that the girls deserved more. And the dissatisfaction was brewing, and I felt a pit in my stomach each time a girl approached with that look on her face.

It was like a slow leak in a tire — just a little bit of air escaping each day, but you know you’re going to end up on the side of the road.

Because I couldn’t raise their pay. I really couldn’t. This wasn’t a favor, it was a business. And the business only worked if I kept all the parts — group size, supply costs, assistant salaries — exactly where they were. I couldn’t afford to suddenly add ten percent to payroll because a few teenagers decided their jobs were harder than expected.

So I told them no, and they shrugged, and I just held my breath that they wouldn’t all up and leave, leaving me high and dry.

The girls were polite, mostly. But disappointed. I could feel it in the air — that new tightness, the uncomfortable undercurrent. Instead of the usual camaraderie and good cheer I loved to build at the program — the camaraderie that was such an appeal to the girls, the reason why so many high school girls chose to do this instead of doing their own Sunday projects, because Sunday Sparks was fun, and I treated my assistants to treats and bonuses here and there, and tried to make it fun for them, too — there was this tension, like I was the villain.

And for what? For paying a high school girl the same starting rate I always paid — the same one she agreed to. For trusting her with a group that was running beautifully. For giving her what was supposed to be a light, positive job experience. And now… I was being cast as the one taking advantage?

A

nd then Chaya left.

She just gave me her resignation and stopped showing up.

Which meant I had no assistant for the baking club.

I called in a few frantic favors, got my post-seminary niece on the job for the first week, but it wasn’t a long-term viable solution. I spent hours on the phone chasing leads, but most high school girls either had Sunday commitments or didn’t want to lock themselves into anything long-term.

The next week, for lack of any other option, I ran the baking club myself, sprinting between measuring spoons and preheating ovens while trying to supervise another group down the hall. The kitchen was a mess. I had to get the girls out late. One parent texted me that her daughter was very disappointed that she hadn’t gotten any fondant….

And the other assistants, obviously, were even more unhappy, because they’d had even less support.

After everyone was finally home and the place cleaned up, I sank into a chair and fantasized for a moment about calling Estee and giving her a piece of my mind.

I’m sure she just thought she was “standing up for her daughter.” But in reality? She was encouraging her daughter to shirk responsibilities and destroying my business in the process.

If she wanted to teach her daughter life skills, why not start with the basic menschlichkeit of doing the job she’d committed to?

If I could tell Estee one thing it would be: You’re teaching your daughter to shirk her responsibilities, and running my business to the ground. 

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1088)