The Contract in Pieces

Maya’s request remained between us, as tangible as something set down on the floor. She kept her gaze on me, fingers resting beside the laptop. Its light fell across the channel’s statistics page, open to a password she had never been meant to have.

I tried to answer, but what came out was a delay. “Let’s leave this until tomorrow,” I said. My own voice seemed distant, detached from me.

“There’s nothing to discuss tomorrow.” Her tone was level. “I need a lawyer, Dad.”

I made no attempt to change her mind. I backed into the hall and eased the door toward its frame. The latch made a small sound in the silence.

Downstairs, Elena sat at the kitchen island, her tea cupped between her palms. The room was dim, and she seemed to be looking through the dark countertop rather than at it.

The kitchen had always felt like proof that our work had paid off: the ovens, the custom cupboards, all that space in a neighborhood people wanted to live in. Now I saw it as a display case, full of things acquired through a history I had refused to examine.

I took the stool opposite her and sat. For a moment, I watched the steam fade above her mug.

“Maya wants independent counsel,” I told her.

Elena’s answer came without hesitation. “She should have it.”

I stared at her. My frustration rose before I could put it away. “If she brings in someone on her own, that person could go through the LLC, interfere with the licenses, even disrupt how we manage everything.”

She lifted her face. The skin around her eyes looked tired and red. “Listen to what you’re saying, Adam. You’ve made our daughter sound like a hostile corporate takeover.”

“I’m trying to keep the company running—the thing that pays for our lives.” Even as I said it, I heard how quickly I had made the company the center of the answer.

“Maya is the company,” Elena said, her voice breaking through the quiet. She set down her mug, spilling tea across the stone. “We began recording her because it seemed sweet. Then it made money, and before long we acted as if we couldn’t stop.”

She reached for a paper towel. “We kept saying the channel would give her a nest egg. But she gave up a deal worth six figures because people seeing her cry made her feel sick. And you’re still thinking about the management structure.”

Elena wiped the tea from the counter, keeping her back to me. I had no response ready that didn’t sound like another defense of the business.

“Get her an attorney,” she said. “Someone with no connection to our agency. We’ll cover the retainer through the company account.”

Two days passed. Then the four of us sat down in Seattle: Maya, Elena, David Pierce, and me.

David worked on behalf of young performers, including children trying to disentangle their lives from decisions their parents had made around entertainment income and publicity. He was in his late fifties, dressed simply, his expression difficult to read.

He did not position himself opposite Elena and me. Instead, he drew his chair around so that Maya was the person he faced.

“Maya,” he said, speaking to her as an equal rather than a child to be soothed, “I’ve looked at the public information about your family’s channel. Before we go into documents, what do you want this meeting to accomplish?”

She straightened in her seat. Her oversized hoodie looked out of place beside the formal table, but she seemed more at ease in it than I had seen her in days.

“I want control of my archive,” she said. Her voice faltered, then steadied as she continued. “My parents own the channel, but I’m in most of the videos people watched. I want to be able to stop old footage of me from being used, licensed, or sold.”

David gave a small nod and wrote something down. “All right. To understand where things stand, let’s start with the catalog. Who owns its copyright?” He looked toward me.

“Family First Media LLC,” I said. The answer came automatically; I had repeated it in meetings for years.

“And who manages the LLC?”

“Elena and I do.” I heard the formality in my own words, as if speaking plainly could make the arrangement less personal.

David paused, then asked, “Is Maya an employee, a shareholder, or a member of the company?”

Heat crept up my neck. “She has a Coogan account. Fifteen percent of the channel’s gross revenue goes into it, protected for her until she turns eighteen. We’ve followed the rules.”

“I understand,” he said, without raising his voice. “But I’m asking how she is legally connected to the business that owns the videos.”

I lowered my eyes to the table. “She isn’t an employee or a shareholder. She’s not listed as a member of the LLC.” Saying it aloud made the omission sound less like paperwork and more like a choice.

David turned back to Maya. “Then, under the current arrangement, your parents own the footage of your childhood, the copyright, and the rights to distribute it.”

Maya looked at me. I could see the hurt in her face, and it reached somewhere in my chest that all my talk of percentages and accounts had failed to reach.

I spoke before the silence could settle. “We can fix that. We can put together an operating agreement that gives Maya a place at the table, and make third-party licensing of archive footage subject to unanimous approval.”