Who raised this child and can I hire them to coach my niece?
Cassie kept scrolling.
Oh my god. I’m ugly-crying at eight in the morning over a twelve-year-old’s song, send help.
Emily blinked, unsure whether to laugh or start panicking. “Did you…?”
“Roman posted it last night,” Cassie said, awe creeping into her voice. “It’s going viral. Like, real viral. Look—” She refreshed the screen. The counter leapt by a thousand more views.
“No way,” Emily muttered, the implications making hard for her to form words.
By midday, the inn’s main number was fielding calls from newspapers—Local child prodigy stuns with folk song!, morning show producers, and one woman from a podcast who claimed to be on a first-name basis with Oprah.
The air around the inn changed—guests lingered at breakfast, waiting to see if “the girl from the video” would make an appearance. The kitchen staff started using “Chantelle” as a verb— “You just Chantelled that omelette, my dude”—to mean doing something surprisingly well under pressure.
But the real fun started in the afternoon, when Emily dared to look at her inbox.
Chantelle was at the kitchen table, working through a summer bridge fraction worksheet, when Emily waved her phone between the girl and her math. “Looks like you got a fan club, kid.”
Chantelle stared at the phone, then at Emily. “Do I have to open them?”
Emily peered at the email addresses—some were from talent agencies or music labels that’s he recognized, some with Los Angeles zips, some from as far as Singapore. One was from a girl in Ohio who wanted to start a band over Zoom.
“Only if you want to,” Emily said.
Chantelle shrugged, like it was no big deal, but her hand trembled as she took the phone. They read them together. The agencies were professional but breathless— “We heard your demo and are in awe of your emotional maturity; we’d love to discuss next steps.” The labels sent form letters, asking for“samples of further compositions”and“parental consent for initial contact.”The Ohio girl wanted to mail Chantelle a friendship bracelet, begging Chantelle to “never stop singing or being weird.”
The video kept climbing—over 700,000 views by dinner, with another thousand comments. Cassie read the best ones aloud at the table. Daniel, who had been skeptical of the entire internet as a concept, seemed equal parts baffled and delighted.
“I didn’t think people actually paid attention to music anymore,” he said, carving a baked potato.
Chantelle stabbed her fork into her peas, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “It’s just a dumb song.”
Cassie, never one for subtlety, said, “That dumb song made five people in this house cry today, including the dishwasher.”
Emily reached over and squeezed Chantelle’s wrist. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” she said, knowing even as she said it that it was a lie. Once the world noticed you, it rarely let go.
After dinner, as Emily loaded the dishwasher, she caught a flash of movement in the window. Chantelle was on the back porch, guitar in lap, singing to the dusk. The sound didn’t carry far, but Emily could see the intent in her daughter’s face—lips pressed tight, eyes squinted as if she were reading the air for clues. It struck her then, viscerally, that this was only the beginning. She wasn’t sure ofwhat,though. Emily let the plates soak and wandered outside, standing just out of sight.
Chantelle played through the verse, then stopped, muttered something, and started again. She worked the melody over and over, each time changing a word or a chord. She didn’t know anyone was watching. It was pure, unfiltered effort, the kind of practice that didn’t need an audience or a reason.
Emily stood there, listening to her daughter be herself.
When the porch light flicked on, Chantelle looked up, caught sight of her mother, and rolled her eyes. “You’re stalking me,” she called.
“Just making sure you weren’t lured away by record executives.”
Chantelle shrugged. “They’d have to offer me, like, a million dollars and a dog. Maybe two dogs.”
Emily smiled, stepping into the porch’s halo. “Mogsy and Rain aren’t enough?”
“We can negotiate,” Chantelle said.
They stood together for a moment. Emily wanted to say something wise, something that would turn this viral blip into a lesson about humility or the dangers of fame. But all she could think of was how brave her daughter was, and how little she herself had to do with any of it.
Instead, she just said, “You did good, kid.”
Chantelle played a nonsense chord. “You sound like Nana Patty.”
