Chapter 1
Madison
@loufromlouisiana You have a beautiful home and a beautiful family. God bless you all.
#homemaker #tradwife #familyfirst #truefemininity #inspiration
I give the camera my signature smile, holding it for a second longer than feels comfortable.
This always feels a little false, but I know it’s what my followers expect, and I don’t want to disappoint them.
‘Don’t you love summer mornings?’ I say in my honey, breathy voice.
‘Wow, the sun is just peeking out over our mountains, full of promise. I just know today is going to be a good day.’
I rise onto my tiptoes and pull open one of the high kitchen cabinets.
I know some of my less savory followers will get a kick out of this, watching my calf muscles lift and bulge, maybe rubbing their groins as they stare.
But in my knee-length, floral smock dress, I’m hardly encouraging it, and what happens in the darker corners of the internet isn’t my responsibility.
I reach for a bag of oats, then four different mason jars with handwritten labels, and turn back to the camera.
I pause for a moment, knowing from experience that the early morning sunshine will light up my eyes, then reach forward, stop the video and exhale.
These dawn reels, making the most of the golden hour, might be high currency on Instagram, but filming before seven a.m. every day is exhausting.
I grab a ceramic mixing bowl from the cupboard and tip in most of the ingredients. Then I scoop a handful of dried fruit from a jar and position it on the wooden chopping board to look like it’s just been dropped there. I shift the board until
I find the right angle for the cherries to be drenched in sunshine – the red is mesmerizing when it gleams – then pull a knife out of the block and place it next to the fruit. One final check, a deep breath and a quick practice smile, then I press record.
‘It’s breeding season on the ranch,’ I say, not looking at the camera now, but knowing the video will pick up my profile, my best side.
‘And Michael has got a tough day ahead of him, so I’m making something super nutritious for breakfast. Homemade granola.
And a lot of the ingredients are grown right here on the homestead.
You might remember the children picking cherries and apricots last weekend.
We set a few handfuls out in the sunshine, and I think they’ve turned out pretty well.
’ I roll the knife blade over the fruit, hoping the new external microphone picks up the faint squelch as the soft centers split open (because at over five hundred bucks, it really should).
Then I add the dried fruit to the mixing bowl and eye the jar of honey.
Normally I’d stop filming now to set up the next scene.
But the honey is exactly where I need it.
Did Lori place it there last night for me?
I don’t remember telling her I planned to make granola this morning.
As I ponder this, I realize I’m frowning, so I reach for the stop button.
Honey or no honey, I need a moment to compose myself.
I breathe, thank the Lord for editing software, and press record.
‘You know, our beautiful honeybees have been busy this summer,’ I say, scraping thick honey out of the glass jar.
‘We’ve had two harvests already, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s more to come.
I think they might love the Montana sunshine as much as we do.
’ I let the honey ooze into the mixture.
As I catch the last drop with my little finger, I turn to the camera and lick it off with a mischievous grin.
I pick a long wooden spoon from the wobbly utensil pot that Molly made as a gift for me last Christmas and place the mixing bowl against my hip.
Making sure its contents are directly in line with the camera, I stir in wide circles.
It’s more physically demanding than it looks, but I keep up the rhythm until it’s all blended together.
After another break to line two trays with parchment paper, I set up my final shot, then transfer the mixture, one gloopy dollop at a time.
‘You don’t need to bake it for too long, fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.
’ I have learned over the years what works best when I’m explaining recipes, and accommodating rather than bossy always gets me more likes.
‘Which is lucky,’ I go on. ‘Because I don’t think Michael is going to be in the mood for waiting around on such a nice day.
Oh, and let me know in the comments if you’d like the recipe, and have a truly gorgeous day! ’
I pause for one final smile after my trademark sign off, then reach forward to stop the video.
I fight the urge to watch the footage back because I’m bound to see imperfections – a shadow somewhere, or possibly even fine lines around my eyes – and I know that’s what editing is for.
I wash my hands – my little finger still feels sticky from that honey – and head for the door.
These days, I spend as little time as possible in the kitchen.
‘Lori!’ I exhale, as I find our housekeeper loitering in the hallway.
She’s wearing a long denim skirt, sneakers, and a white sweatshirt that’s been washed so many times it’s now a pale gray.
When we first moved here, I bought clothes for Lori, floaty dresses and colourful skirts.
She was only twenty-seven, even though she has always acted older, and she deserved to look beautiful too.
But the feminine clothes rarely made it out of the closet, and eventually I gave up. ‘What are you doing out here?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ she says. ‘I wasn’t sure if you were still filming, and I didn’t want to mess things up by getting in the way.’
‘It’s fine. I’m finished. The place is all yours. The granola needs to come out of the stove in about ten minutes, if that’s okay. So can you leave it to cool and let Erica know to come film it? And do you have time to cook some steak and eggs for Michael?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Lori says. ‘And I’m sure the children will eat the granola if I give them free rein over the maple syrup.’
‘Have you seen them this morning?’ I ask with that familiar mix of gratitude and envy. Lori is great with the children, but I sometimes worry that they prefer her company to mine.
‘Myron had a nightmare last night, poor thing,’ Lori says. ‘But he’s fast asleep in my bed now. Matilda is wandering around in her cow costume; I think she’s trying to impress her daddy. And I haven’t seen Molly or Mason yet.’
‘Okay, thanks. I’ll go round them up. I need them looking their best this morning.’
‘Oh?’
‘The new tutor is arriving today,’ I explain, not quite holding eye contact. ‘And she’ll be here soon. She flew in from Boston last night, stayed at the airport hotel. Bill’s picking her up about now.’
‘A new tutor?’ Lori raises her eyebrows into a question. ‘I thought you said that you were going to homeschool the children yourself after the last one left?’
‘I wanted to, initially,’ I say smoothly. I try to blot out the memory of holding back tears as I threw the girl out, screaming at her to never set foot on our property again. ‘But Michael persuaded me to try again with a new one.’
‘Michael did?’
I hear the unspoken meaning behind her question and push my lips together in annoyance. ‘He wants to make sure I have plenty of time for him,’ I say, taking care not to sound defensive. ‘Because we all know that’s the secret to a good marriage.’
Lori searches my face, and I flinch slightly as I see sympathy in hers. ‘Are you sure this is the kind of life you want, Madison?’
I smile. ‘This is the perfect life, Lori. And I’m truly grateful for it. You more than anyone should understand that.’