To be fair, my big sister isn’t out trying to follow in Dad’s footsteps like I am, but at least Nora’s doing something with her life. She married one of his CEOs and is the perfectly messy soccer mom. And she’s killing it.
Nora’s always seemed to move through life without needing to justify herself.
But I wasn’t built that way.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the spot where my whiteboard used to be before I took it down. It was filled with orders at first, then it just became full of returns and complaints. I thought it would be motivational, but instead, it just ended up trashed with all the half-used bottles. The irony that I have to throw away each return isn’t lost on me.
Literally tossing money into the trash.
The money my dad loaned me for the entire business startup.
My eyes drift over to the line of pink-and-gold Glow Girl jars sitting on my counter, mocking me with their perfect packaging. I spent so much money on those containers, insisting on custom designs with my signature and face embossed on each one.
How did everything go so wrong?
I did my research. I hired chemists. I tested the product on myself before launching. But somehow, I missed the most basic quality-control issue: the formula wasn’t stable long-term. But by the time customers started complaining about the odor, I was already knee-deep in my marketing campaign. I’d spent thousands on influencer packages, trade show booths, and social media ads. My face was plastered across every platform, beaming with pride over my “revolutionary” skincare line.
I close my eyes, but the memory of the smell still makes my nose wrinkle. It really was terrible—a putrid, sulfuric stench that seemed to cling to everything it touched. I spent weeks trying to wash it off my hands after testing the returned products.
My phone rings, startling me out of my spiral of self-loathing. Dad’s face lights up the screen, and I briefly consider ignoring his call, but that would only make him try again. And again. Until I answer.
I take a deep breath and swipe to answer. “Hey, Dad.”
“Nic!” His voice is warm but carries that undertone of concern he’s had ever since the first batch of returns started coming in. “How are you holding up, sweetheart?”
“I’m great,” I lie, forcing brightness into my voice. “Just been working on some marketing strategies for the new formula.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “I saw the latest sales report. And the return numbers.”
Of course he did. Dad might give me space to run my own business, but he still has access to all the financial data. Perks of being the silent investor who helped me get started.
“It’s a setback,” I admit, my forced cheerfulness faltering. “But I’m figuring it out.”
“Sweetheart,” he says, his voice gentle in that way that means he’s about to tell me something I don’t want to hear. “I think it might be time to consider cutting your losses.”
“Dad—”
“Just hear me out,” he continues. “The skincare market is cutthroat even for established brands. The smell issue … it’s created a reputation that’s going to be nearly impossible to overcome.”
My throat tightens. “I fixed the formula. The new batch doesn’t have that problem.”
“I know you did, and I’m proud of how quickly you adapted,” he says. “But sometimes the smartest business decision is knowing when to walk away.”
“So you’re saying I should just give up? After all the money we’ve put into this?”
“You’ve learned valuable lessons from this experience. Take those lessons and apply them to your next venture.”
“But I’ve already fixed the formula,” I argue, my voice wavering despite my attempt to sound confident. “If I could just get people to try it again—”
“Nicole.” His voice is firmer now, shifting from concerned father to business mentor. “The packaging has your face on it. Your name. This isn’t just about the product anymore—it’s about brand perception. And right now, the Glow Girl brand is associated with one thing in consumers’ minds.”
“Rotten eggs,” I murmur, closing my eyes.
“Exactly. It would take a marketing budget ten times what you’ve already spent to overcome that association. And even then, it might not work.”
Tears form behind my eyelids, but I refuse to let them fall. Not while I’m on the phone with Dad. Not when I’m trying so hard to prove I can do this on my own.
“I’m not ready to give up,” I whisper, hating how small my voice sounds. “Icando this, Dad. Ihaveto. I don’t want to be labeled a failure forever. I just need one good thing, so it proves the rest of this wasn’t a mistake.”
