Page 31 of Rescuing Aria
Harness.
As if she’s a resource to be managed rather than a partner with an equal investment in our success. The conversation continues, but Ember steps back, shifting from participant to observer in her own business.
Dad examines our newest display—a collaboration between Ryn’s crystal work and Ember’s scent blending. The pieces catch the afternoon light streaming through our windows, each one unique and stunning, selling for prices that validate our business model completely.
“These are quite sophisticated.” He lifts one of the vessels, turning it to examine the goldwork. “The craftsmanship is excellent. But I have to ask—how much of your time goes intoeach piece? What’s your actual hourly rate once you factor in labor costs?”
Classic Dad—reducing art to spreadsheet calculations.
“It’s not about efficiency.” Ember’s voice carries quiet conviction, her hands stilling on the display she’s been adjusting. “It’s about creating something meaningful. Something that tells a story.”
“Stories don’t show up on quarterly reports.” Dad’s response carries gentle chiding, the tone of someone explaining simple math to a child. “I’m not diminishing the artistic value, but at some point, you need to consider whether this is sustainable long-term.”
I shift beside him, caught between supporting Ember and not contradicting my father—a position I’ve found myself in with increasing frequency lately.
“Actually…” Dad’s tone brightens as if he’s just thought of something wonderful. His eyes light up with the kind of enthusiasm that usually signals he’s about to solve a problem we didn’t know we had. “This might be perfect timing. I’ve been discussing emerging brands in the luxury lifestyle space with some colleagues. There’s real interest in artisanal products that can scale appropriately.”
“Scale how?” Wariness creeps into my voice despite my efforts to sound neutral.
“Strategic partnerships. Distribution agreements with high-end retailers. Maybe even licensing deals for the more unique techniques.” He gestures toward the kintsugi display with appreciation. “This broken-and-mended concept—that’s brandable. Marketable. With the right backing, it could be in Nordstrom by Christmas.”
Horror flickers across Ember’s features as Dad speaks before she can conceal it. Mass production. Her careful, personal work reduced to a marketing concept to be replicated by factoryworkers who’ve never experienced the kind of breaking that makes the mending meaningful.
“That’s…” Ember starts, then stops, clearly at a loss for words that won’t offend.
“Generous.” I finish for her, though enthusiasm remains notably absent from my voice. “Dad, that’s incredibly generous, but we’d need to think about whether that fits our vision.”
“Vision evolves,” Dad speaks with the confidence of someone who’s never had his vision questioned, never had to defend something precious against well-meaning improvement. “What matters is maximizing the opportunity while it exists. These lifestyle trends have limited windows. Strike while the market’s receptive.”
He pulls out his phone, scrolling through contacts with an efficiency that speaks to decades of deal-making. “Let me make a few calls. I know people who specialize in scaling artisanal brands. They could do a consultation, show you what’s possible.”
“Dad, we don’t need?—”
“Nonsense. It’s just a consultation. Information gathering. No commitments.” He’s already dialing, moving toward the front window for better reception. “You’ll thank me when you see the potential.”
Ember and I stand in the sudden quiet, watching Dad pace near our carefully arranged displays while he speaks in low, urgent tones to whoever answered his call. Around us, the shop continues its afternoon rhythm—customers browsing thoughtfully, Ryn helping a teenager choose her first high-end candle, the soft jazz that provides our soundtrack weaving through conversations like silk.
“I’m sorry.” The words emerge quietly, barely audible above the ambient noise. “He means well, but?—”
“But he doesn’t see what we’ve built here,” Ember finishes the thought, her voice carrying resignation rather than anger.“He sees a business opportunity that happens to involve candles.”
I nod, frustration building in my chest like pressure in a steam kettle. “In his world, success means going national, maximizing profits, and building an empire. He can’t understand that sometimes small and meaningful is better than big and profitable.”
Dad ends his call and returns with a satisfied expression, as if he’s just solved a problem. “Good news. I spoke with Miranda Anderson—she’s phenomenal at brand scaling. She’s free Thursday afternoon for a preliminary assessment. No cost, just an expert eye on what you’ve built and where it could go.”
“Thursday?” I keep my voice carefully neutral, though my stomach performs an uncomfortable flip. “That’s very quick.”
“No point in waiting. Market timing matters in this business.” He slides his phone back into his jacket pocket. “Miranda will take a look at your operations, review your financials, and suggest strategic directions. Think of it as a free graduate-level business course.”
I want to protest that we didn’t ask for a graduate-level business course; we’re happy with what we’ve built. Not everything needs to be optimized, scaled, and turned into something unrecognizable. But the words stick in my throat, held back by decades of conditioning and the genuine desire not to hurt him.
“That’s very thoughtful.” Ember manages the response with grace I couldn’t have mustered, though tension radiates from her shoulders.
“It’s an investment in Aria’s future.” Dad’s smile widens, genuine warmth radiating from his expression. “And yours, of course. Rising tides lift all boats.”
He spends another twenty minutes touring the shop, asking questions about inventory management and customerdemographics, taking pictures of our displays “for Miranda’s reference.” His interest radiates genuine enthusiasm, his suggestions carry obvious good intentions, but underneath it all sits the assumption that we’re playing at business until real business arrives to show us how it’s done.
When he finally leaves—after scheduling Thursday’s consultation and promising to “make some additional calls”—the shop feels different. Smaller, somehow. As if his vision of what we could become has diminished what we are.
