The Brand Wanted Lucy in Front

One person wrote that Lucy seemed calmer than usual, as if she’d finally escaped the glare of a studio light. They said her face looked like it belonged to her again.

Another viewer said my laugh, when the timer sounded, was the first thing on the app that had felt real in ages. They wanted people to leave us alone and let us be ourselves.

Someone else described the burnt pan as familiar. Their own kitchen, they said, was just as chaotic, and seeing one that looked lived in made them feel less alone.

I perched on my mattress and went through the responses one after another. Nobody was ranking us or picking apart our appearances. Instead, people seemed relieved that we hadn’t pretended to be perfect.

Our bedroom door eased open. Lucy appeared in the gap, her hair twisted into a lopsided tangle. She rubbed her eyes, wearing an old, roomy shirt of mine, and wandered over to sit at the end of my bed.

She glanced at my screen, then searched my face. Her expression changed in a heartbeat. “Was it awful?” she asked. “Are people mad at us?”

I couldn’t bring myself to answer right away. I turned the phone toward her and placed it in her hands, letting the comments speak for me.

Lucy tucked her legs against her chest and propped the phone on her knees. Her gaze moved quickly over the words. At first, she held herself stiffly, braced for the channel’s usual judgment.

Then her shoulders loosened. Her lips parted as she read, and a tentative smile appeared, fragile but unmistakable. She looked as if she couldn’t quite trust what she was seeing.

“They actually liked the brownies even though we ruined them,” she murmured.

“They liked watching us,” I told her. “That’s not the same as liking a batch of brownies.”

She returned the phone to me. Her eyes glimmered, though she blinked hard. “Do you think Mom’s angry?”

“We can ask her,” I said. We got up and went to find her together, neither of us quite sure what would be waiting downstairs.

The house had barely stirred. Cloudy daylight stretched across the living room windows, turning everything a muted gray. In the kitchen, Rachel stood near the island, holding coffee and looking outside.

Her computer was shut. At the sound of us, she turned around. She seemed worn down, shadows under her eyes, but the restless urgency that had filled her lately was missing.

“Morning,” she said softly.

“You put the video up,” I said, stopping a few steps from the island.

“I did.” Rachel lowered her cup onto the counter. She looked from me to Lucy, then studied her own hands. “Last night, I sat alone with that drive for hours. I was scared to see what was on it.”

She drew in an unsteady breath. “I thought it would show you both looking miserable for half an hour, and prove that I’d wrecked everything.”

“But I watched it,” she went on. Her voice caught. “And I saw my girls. I didn’t see talent or something to sell. I saw you two laughing and making a mess.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. “It hit me that I couldn’t remember the last time I let you make a mess without looking for a way to turn it into content.”

Lucy moved closer, cautious but hopeful. “The comments are nice, Mom.”

Rachel gave a small nod. “I saw them.”

“Did you check the numbers?” I asked. I tried to sound calm, but the old wariness had already edged into my voice.

She laid her palm against the closed laptop. “I saw how many people watched when I got up. It’s trending, and the response is stronger than the last three sponsored videos put together.”

She paused, then set her jaw. “But I’m not opening the analytics page. I don’t want to check how long people stayed or whether they clicked anything.”

I stared at her. “You mean you’re really leaving it closed?”

“Yes.” Rachel came around the island and stopped in front of us. “I made a machine because I wanted to provide for you. Then I let that machine consume you. I’m sorry, Tessa. I’m sorry, Lucy.”

Lucy went straight into her arms, pressing her face against Rachel’s sweater. Rachel made a broken sound and held her close, resting her cheek on Lucy’s hair.

For a moment, I stayed where I was. Hurt and relief pulled at me in opposite directions. Then I stepped in and wrapped both of them in my arms.

We stood together in the middle of our spotless kitchen, holding tight while the picture-perfect version of us finally fell apart. For once, nobody was arranging the moment for an audience.

The video’s popularity didn’t settle our debts. One successful upload couldn’t wipe away the second mortgage or make the worries waiting at home disappear.

On Monday, the agency called. They’d noticed how well the video had done without a sponsor, and now they wanted to supply attractive baking gear for a follow-up.

Rachel answered on speaker while Lucy and I worked on our homework in the living room. The agency representative, David, began pitching it as an easy next step.

He talked about coordinated bowls, pretty utensils, and a kitchen setup that would look good on camera. The offer sounded polished, as if the last video had been a strategy instead of a mistake.

Rachel stayed on the phone, listening as David tried to turn our burnt brownies into a brand-friendly sequel.