Page 114 of Flawed

"You make enough," she claims.

Appalled, I gape at her then point out, "You don't know what I make. And what I earn isn't yours to blow through."

"Mom, I need a credit card. It's not fair," she proclaims.

I scoff. "Not fair?"

She continues, "I can't go shopping with the rest of my friends if I have to rely on the cash you give me."

Fed up with this conversation, I refute, "You're not going to just start spending ridiculous amounts of money on stupid stuff, Zara. That's not the way the world works."

She crosses her arms, throwing daggers at me with her glare. "You're ridiculous, Mom."

I lose my temper and raise my voice. "I'm ridiculous?"

"Yeah, and I'm getting my tattoo," she shrieks.

More anger fills me. "Over my dead body."

She smirks. "You can't stop me."

"Want to make a bet?" I threaten, but my insides quiver. It's no secret that there are tons of places in the city that would willingly give her a tattoo without my permission.

She gives me a challenging stare, frightening me further. We lock eyes until she finally throws her hands in the air. "Ah, you're so annoying!"

I glance at the ceiling. I'm so tired of this fight. My sweet little girl changed once she hit thirteen. Now that she's fourteen, it's only gotten worse. She's more aggressive with her demands than ever. Lately, whenever we get into one of these arguments, I curse Luca. She has so many traits of his, including his demanding attitude.

She announces, "Even Aunt Pina said my starfish is cool."

I jerk my head back, insisting, "Aunt Pina did not tell you to go get a tattoo. She said your drawing looked cool. You failed to mention it was for a tattoo."

Zara scoffs. "What does that have to do with it? It's a cool design."

"You don't even go to the beach very often. Why would you put a starfish on you?" I inquire. My heart tells me that if she marks her body up at this age, she'll regret it.

She rolls her eyes. "You're so old, Mom."

I stay quiet, trying not to be hurt, but I am.

Maybe I am old?

No, I'm not old. It's not okay for my fourteen-year-old daughter to run around New York City with a credit card and get a tattoo.

"I'm not asking for anything my friends don't have," Zara states, as if that's going to change my mind.

"They're a bunch of spoiled brats," I blurt out.

She glares at me harder. "No, they aren't!"

"Money doesn't grow on trees," I tell her.

She tilts her head, replying, "You have all designer stuff. And we live in a nice place. Why can't I have a credit card? We have money!"

More shock fills me. This isn't how I raised her to be. I retort, "I earned these nice things. You're lucky to live the lifestyle you live."

"Whatever, Mom," she utters.

"Zara, please stop this. You're not getting a credit card. And you're not getting a tattoo, so stop bringing this up all the time. The answer is no," I state.

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