Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 85399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
“That’s amazing.”
“I know. I have no clue where she gets her Maddie Magic from, but she’s taken my scrapbooking from a hobby to a real business. I can’t keep up with orders anymore. I’ve been turning people down.” I close the doughnut bag. “I need these next two weeks off to get a business plan together. I wasn’t prepared for all of this.”
Billie collapses in a chair by the window and watches me smugly.
“What?” I ask.
“Lauren. Babe.”
“What?”
“You know damn good and well where Maddie gets her skills. From you. She might’ve gotten those big brown eyes from Jack—and Michael might be Jack through and through—but that girl is all you. I see it even more these days.”
I give her a simple smile. She winks back.
The last two and a half years have been some of the hardest but most necessary of my life. Admissions were made. I wasn’t happy. Truths uncovered. I wasn’t setting a good example for my kids. Dreams acknowledged. I wanted to live a life I recognized and loved.
I chose to give my husband the opportunity to make good on his promises. I had to exercise patience, never my strongest virtue, while I waited for him to come around. To be an active participant in our family again. To remember I exist as a woman.
As the days and months wore on, it became clear—if I wanted to be happy, that was my responsibility. I couldn’t wait on Jack to change. I had to change.
So I did.
I started a business, although serendipitously. I discovered that I like sushi. Exercise became a part of my life, I bought red lipstick for fun, and most importantly, I changed my mindset. I became me again.
“Your scrapbooking business was just featured on the national morning news,” Billie says, shaking her head in awe. “A scrapbooking business, Lo. Who does that? You. You do that. You’re a big fucking deal.”
My cheeks flush. “I’m not a big fucking deal. I was on the screen for, what, sixty seconds?”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re the biggest fucking deal I know. You’re the biggest deal in Maple, Ohio.”
I laugh. “Like that means anything. A thousand people live here.”
“Stop downplaying it. Be proud of yourself.”
I grab the last of the Bubble Wrap and stuff it in the bin. “I am. It’s just . . . surreal, I guess.”
The afternoon that Maddie caught me dancing while shaking glitter onto a project caught me by surprise. I said no when she begged me to let her upload it online. Absolutely not. The only reason I ever agreed was because she did all the laundry and dishes in exchange for the video. If I thought I was surprised that she’d recorded me, that was nothing compared to my shock at the video going viral the next day.
“I’m so proud of you,” Billie says now, beaming. “I just want you to know that. I tell everyone that my best friend is a superstar.”
“Will you stop it? You’re making me all . . . feel-y.”
She laughs, getting back to her feet. “The horror.”
“You know what I mean.”
She smiles at me. I return the sentiment.
I’m amazed at the things I’ve been able to achieve over the last year. Once Maddie put my scrapbooking online—videoing me and uploading to social media sites—my hobby blossomed into a business that I’d never had the courage to dream for myself. The more projects I complete, with those customers then showing off my work and tagging me on their posts, the more requests I have. It’s wild and amazing—and so fulfilling.
“Thank you for saying that,” I say. “I appreciate you very much.”
She waves a hand through the air before continuing her box smashing.
I stretch my arms overhead, feeling the pull all the way down my back. Sore muscles still surprise me every time they ache. Billie insisted that moving around and getting into a “me routine,” as she calls it, would help me feel better all around.
She wasn’t wrong.
Early-afternoon sun streams into the room, filling my small corner office with light. The room was a guest bedroom until a month ago, when I decided to put the space to better use. I had to. My scrapbooking work had started to take over the entire dining room. Not that we use that room much anyway, but I hated walking in the front door and seeing the mess. So I talked Michael into helping me build shelves and a brand-spanking-new desk, and voilà! I have my very own office space.
It’s not the brick-and-mortar store of my dreams, but it’ll do. For now.
“Where are your kids?” she asks. “I need Michael to help me carry this to the garage. I’m not putting this stuff in my new car and hauling it to the recycling center for you.”
I glance at my phone. “He should be picking Maddie up from Elodie’s. He worked at the farm stand this morning and was grabbing her on the way home.”