“So today,” I said into the live television microphone, “I’d like to present our ‘Hometown Hero’ with an invoice for all the cakes she took from my bakery and sold for a profit.”
Her name was Brenda, a local mom-blogger who built her brand on “supporting small business.” For me, that support looked like demanding extravagant, expensive cakes for her parties, all for free.
She promised me “exposure.” What I got was a pile of bills and the sick feeling of being used.
Every time she wanted a cake, I lost money and sleep. I was a baker with a family to support, not a charity, but I was too scared of her thousands of online followers to say no. This happened again and again. She’d smile, make her demands, and I’d just take it.
She thought her biggest prize would be a thousand-dollar unicorn cake, but she never imagined the receipt would be hand-delivered during her big moment on the evening news.
The Weight of a Promise: The Price of Sugar and Dreams
The smell of caramelized sugar and yeast should have been comforting. Tonight, it smelled like impending doom. I rested my forehead against the cool stainless steel of the prep table, the hum of the commercial refrigerator a low growl in the silence of my bakery. “The Sweet Rise.” It had felt so hopeful when I signed the lease three years ago. Now it just felt ironic.
On the counter, next to a half-finished batch of macarons, sat a pile of envelopes. The one on top, with its stark red lettering, was a second notice for our property taxes. $3,450. A figure so specific and so impossibly large it felt like a joke without a punchline. Mark and I had been dancing around it for a week, talking about payment plans and shifting funds that didn’t exist.
My phone buzzed, the vibration skittering across the steel. I picked it up, my thumb hovering over the notification. It was a DM on Instagram.
BrendaL_BestLife: Hey girl! Hope you’re having a fab week! Got another amazing opportunity for us to collab on! So excited!
I closed my eyes. Opportunity. Collab. The words were so bright and shiny, but they left a metallic taste in my mouth, like cheap glitter. Brenda was a local mom-blogger, a self-styled influencer whose “platform” consisted of a curated feed of tastefully beige home decor, expensive children’s clothing, and effusive praise for local businesses who gave her free things.
“Who’s that?” Mark asked, emerging from the back with a crate of empty flour sacks. He saw my face and his own expression tightened. “Don’t tell me. Her.”
I didn’t have to answer. The fluorescent lights of the kitchen bleached all the color from the room, making us both look tired and worn. The tax bill gleamed under the light. Brenda’s message glowed right next to it. One was a demand for money I didn’t have. The other was a demand for product I couldn’t afford to give away. It felt like being trapped between two closing walls.
A Taste of Exposure
“Just ignore it,” Mark said, his voice low. He started breaking down the cardboard boxes with sharp, angry movements. “Just for once, Elara. Let it go to voicemail, metaphorically speaking.”
“It’s not that simple,” I sighed, sinking onto a stool. “She has sixty-thousand followers, Mark. All local. All moms who buy birthday cakes.”
“And how many of those sixty-thousand followers have you converted into actual, paying customers after her last four ‘collabs’?” he countered, not unkindly. He had a point. He always had a point.
The first time, it was for her son’s fourth birthday. A simple but elegant Paw Patrol cake. Brenda had called my work “divine” in a nine-photo carousel post. The post got over four thousand likes. My bakery’s Instagram page got fifteen new followers. Zero new orders. Then came the cake for her sister’s baby shower, a two-tiered floral monstrosity that cost me nearly a hundred dollars in Swiss meringue buttercream alone. Then her own anniversary party. Then a “just because” cake for a giveaway she ran on her page.
Each time, I’d held my breath, waiting for the promised flood of “exposure” to translate into cash flow. Each time, all I got was a trickle of likes from people who lived for freebies. It was like trying to fill a bucket with a leaky faucet.
“Maybe this is the one,” I said, the words feeling thin and foolish even as they left my mouth. “Maybe this time it catches. We just need one good month to get ahead of that tax bill. One good month.”
Mark stopped his work and looked at me, his expression softening. He knew this wasn’t just about the money. The Sweet Rise was my baby, the one I’d birthed from a decade of saving and dreaming. Admitting that my strategy of hopeful giving wasn’t working felt like admitting my dream was a failure.
“Okay,” he said softly. “What’s the ‘opportunity’?”
I typed a reply, my fingers feeling clumsy. Hey Brenda! Sounds great! What do you have in mind?
The three little dots appeared instantly, as if she’d been waiting, phone in hand.
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