I picked Kay up every other Sunday at 6 p.m. from Jacques’s house. But last week, when I knocked, Kay didn’t run to the door like she usually does.

I found her in the living room, wearing Jacques’s oversized hoodie, facing away from me. Cassie, Jacques’s girlfriend, stood there grinning. “We had some girl time at my shop.”

Kay twisted away when I tried to hug her.

Something was very wrong. “Take off your hoodie, sweetie,” I said. She shook her head, tears starting to well in her eyes.

Cassie laughed. “Show your mom your surprise.” When Kay wouldn’t move, Cassie herself yanked the hoodie up. There it was.

Three Yakuza symbol tattoos running down my nine-year-old daughter’s back. Black, green, and red ink, still covered in plastic wrap. The skin was angry and red underneath.

Cassie has always been trying to be the “cool stepmom.” She owns a tattoo parlor downtown, keeps buying Kay crop tops, bra padding, and low-cut jeans, and has been teaching her to wear makeup. Jacques thinks it’s harmless, but this crossed every conceivable line. “She said she wanted to be tough, like in the movies,” Cassie said.

“It means she’s a warrior now.”

She proudly showed me her phone. It was a video of Kay crying, trying to pull away from the tattoo table while Jacques held her shoulders and Cassie worked the needle. “Stop being such a baby,” Cassie’s voice cooed in the video.

“These symbols mean you’re strong.”

Kay’s small voice begged, “I don’t want to be strong! I want to go home. It hurts!

Please, Cassie!”

But Cassie was laughing. “Pain only makes you stronger,” she said, deliberately pressing her needle harder, drawing louder screams from Kay. I scooped Kay into my arms immediately.

She sobbed into my shoulder. Jacques suddenly appeared from the kitchen, a beer in hand. “Why are you being dramatic again?”

“You call your girlfriend tattooing Yakuza symbols on our nine-year-old daughter dramatic?” I shot back.

He just shrugged. “They’re just some Japanese symbols. She watches that anime stuff, anyway.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Do you know what these symbols mean? They’re gang markings! You let her put gang markings on our child!”

Jacques rolled his eyes.

“You’re being racist. It’s just Asian art.”

“It’s body modification of a minor! It’s assault!” I headed for the door, but Cassie blocked my path.