8. Aria #2
That hits harder than I expect because it’s at least partially true. The habit of managing Dad’s expectations and smoothing over tensions runs so deep that I sometimes do it automatically, even when it undermines people I care about.
“That’s not fair.” The words carry little conviction.
“Isn’t it? When Miranda suggested simplifying the kintsugi technique, what did you say?”
I think back to the conversation, trying to remember my exact words. The silence stretches long enough to become its own answer.
“I didn’t say anything.” The admission tastes like ash.
“You didn’t say anything because agreeing with her would have hurt my feelings, but disagreeing with her would have contradicted your father’s vision. So you stayed quiet and let me defend something that shouldn’t need defending.”
The workshop feels smaller suddenly, the weight of unspoken tensions making the air thick and difficult to breathe.
We’ve navigated numerous challenges together—the initial awkwardness of our different backgrounds, the trauma that brought us together, and the delicate process of building trust and friendship. But this feels different.
More fundamental.
“I don’t want to lose what we’ve built.” My voice emerges quieter than intended.
“Which part? The business or the friendship?”
“Both. Either. I don’t know.” I run my hands through my hair, feeling suddenly exhausted. “Three months ago, this felt simple. We were successful, we were happy, we had a clear vision. Now everything feels complicated.”
“It got complicated when your father decided our success needed management.”
There’s truth in that, even though it feels disloyal to acknowledge it. Dad’s involvement has brought opportunities and resources, but it has also brought expectations and assumptions that don’t align with what we’ve built.
My phone buzzes with a text, and I glance at the screen automatically.
Jon asking if I want to grab dinner after he finishes at Guardian HRS.
The simple message carries its own complication—our relationship that exists in secrecy, another thing I haven’t figured out how to integrate with Dad’s vision of my life.
“I should go.” I stand and gather my things, movements feeling heavy and uncertain. “Jon and I have plans.”
Ember nods, already turning back to her work. “Tell him I said hi. And, Aria… Think about what I said. About choosing sides.”
“I’m not choosing sides. I’ve already chosen my side. We’re partners.”
“Are we? Because sometimes it feels like you’re caught between your old life and your new one, and I’m not sure which side I’m on.”
The question follows me out of the shop and throughout the evening, coloring every conversation with Jon and making sleep elusive when I finally get home. By the time Friday morning arrives, I still don’t have answers, but I have a growing certainty that something fundamental needs to change.
I’m reviewing inventory reports when Dad calls, his voice bright with enthusiasm.
“Miranda sent over her preliminary projections.” He speaks without preamble, excitement crackling through the phone line. “The numbers are extraordinary. We need to move on this opportunity.”
“Good morning to you, too, Dad.”
“Sorry, sweetheart. Good morning. But seriously, these projections… She’s talking about achieving a national presence within eighteen months. The investment requirements are significant, but the potential returns…”
I pull up my email, finding Miranda’s report waiting with the kind of detailed spreadsheets that make Dad’s eyes light up. Revenue projections, market analysis, competitive positioning—all the language of serious business that transforms our personal venture into something abstract and strategic.
“Have you had a chance to discuss this with Ember?” I scroll through pages of charts and graphs that reduce our work to numbers and percentages.
“I thought we’d review it together, then present the opportunity to her. This is the kind of decision that requires strategic thinking, not artistic input.”
There it is again—the fundamental assumption that Ember’s role is creative while mine is strategic, that business decisions happen between the adults while she provides artistic consultation.
“Ember is my business partner. We’re equal partners. Any decisions about the company’s future need to include her from the beginning.”
“Of course, of course. I just meant… Well, you understand the financial implications better. You can help translate the strategic elements into terms that make sense from her perspective.”
“Her perspective is as my business partner.”
“Right. Your business partner who’s phenomenally talented but doesn’t necessarily have the background to evaluate complex financial projections.”
The conversation continues in circles, Dad enthusiastic about opportunities while I struggle to articulate why his approach feels wrong without seeming ungrateful or unprofessional.
By the time we hang up, I have a stack of printouts that represent someone else’s vision of our future and a growing sense that I’m standing at a crossroads I never saw coming.
The shop bustles with Friday morning energy when I arrive, the crowd comprising regular customers and weekend tourists who have heard about us through social media or word of mouth.
Ryn handles the newcomers while Ember works with a customer on a custom scent blend, her attention focused and genuine.
Watching her interact with customers, something Miranda’s analysis missed entirely, strikes me—the personal connection that drives our success. Ember doesn’t sell candles; she listens to stories, suggests scents that match memories, and creates pieces that feel meaningful to their eventual owners.
It’s not a technique that can be scaled or systematized. It’s the heart of everything we’ve built.
“Heavy thoughts?” Ember appears beside me as the morning rush slows, her voice carrying the kind of gentle concern that’s become familiar between us.
“Miranda’s projections.” I gesture toward the printouts I’ve spread across our shared desk, as if they were evidence of some crime. “Dad’s excited about the potential.”
Ember glances at the spreadsheets, her expression carefully neutral. “What kind of potential?”
“National retail presence. Licensing deals. Revenue projections that would make us millionaires within three years.”
“Millionaires making what?”
It’s a simple question that cuts to the core of my growing unease. Millionaires making mass-produced candles that capture the aesthetic of our work without the meaning. Millionaires who’ve optimized the soul out of something that mattered because it was personal.
“I don’t know.” The admission emerges with startling honesty. “That’s the problem.”