That or an epicFailed It.
“Yup. Can’t wait,” I squeak out with a fake smile, even though she can’t see me.
We hang up, and I stare down at the phone, my excitement turning quickly into panic.
Getting this show is my big break—not because I want fame or my face on a big screen. I need it because I’m tired of being seen as just another girl with a glue gun and a ring light. This is my chance to be taken seriously as a professional in the industry and not a hobbyist who got lucky online.
My mom insisted I go to college to be able to land some successful corporate job. So I did. I earned a degree in marketing and communications while spending my free time dragging discarded dressers home and refurbishing them in the garage. I started filming the process because it was the only thing that actually made me feel like myself. I’ve built a social media presence around independence and the idea that women can do anything a man can when it comes to a drill or a hammer.
When I graduated, I knew I couldn’t do the office life that my mom wanted for me.
I wanted to build things.
I wanted tofixthings.
When I opened up to my dad about how I felt, he gave me one year to try. One year to turn our house into my portfolio and see if I could make something real out of it.
But my mom never stopped judging me for it. She never stopped reminding me I should aim higher and that what I did wasn’t enough for a sustainable career. It’s hard to tell the differencewhen the message is always the same—that what I choose is never quite enough.
Especially when there’s Kali.
My older cousin who’s wildly successful living in New York City and climbing the corporate ladder as an editor for a major magazine. I’ve spentyearsbeing quietly measured against her. A part of me envies her success and the close friends she has, but I’ve never wanted that career. I love what I do—the same way she loves what she does.
The problem is, my mom doesn’t see it that way.
She worries about my image, how this looks, and the money I’m making.
Does my gig on social media make me money? Yes, but it’s not nearly enough to get out of this house and be on my own.
This show is supposed to be the thing that changes that.
But renovating a home I don’t even have?
I should have asked more questions during the interview.
Because there’s no way my mom is going to think I can tackle this.
I groan, falling back on my bed, staring up at the ceiling.
This is the offer of a lifetime, and I’m going to have to let Andrea know in a few days that I don’t have the means to do this.
“Scottlyn?” my mom says from the doorway. “Was that the producer on the phone?”
I turn to face her. “Yep. I got it. They want me for the show.”
“Oh…good,” she says, relief flickering through her smile. “That’s wonderful.”
Just as I’m about to open my mouth to say more, she continues.
“But…they do know the only big project you’ve done is this house, right?”
My stomach churns. “They’ve seen my work.”
“I know. I just mean…those little affiliate things you do aren’t quite the same as a real renovation schedule.”
“I—”
“I’m just saying,” she continues gently. “It helps people take you more seriously when they understand where your experience really comes from.”
