Chapter 2: Cinnamon Rolls and Child Labor

Once all the guests had arrived, the host announced the task: “Today, you’ll use a skill to make your own money for the next three days.” The studio buzzed with excitement, everyone glancing around, sizing up the competition. I could feel the tension, and it made me smirk.

Everyone had some kind of talent, so everyone kept cool. The new pop diva raised her hand. “I’ll sing.”

The host was ruthless. “It’s not up to you. The kids will draw lots.” Then out came the lottery box. I squinted and could just make out “cooking,” “singing,” “performance,” even “fortune-telling”… Crap.

Sure enough, he looked up at me. “Mom, which one do you want?” The diva just loved Daniel and patted his head. “It’s random, sweetie. You don’t get to pick.”

He smiled at her, dimples deep enough to drown in. “I have magic. I’ll bless Mommy.” The diva was so charmed she leaned in and whispered to me, “Samantha, you’re so lucky.”

You want that luck? Her son was a cool kid, sighing behind her as he pulled her away. “Mom, better think about what you’ll do—singing’s all you’ve got…” I watched them, thinking, better her than me.

Time to face my own little monster. I pretended to fret. “Anything but singing is fine for me.” I repeated, just to be sure: “Absolutely, definitely, don’t draw singing.”

Daniel patted his chest. “Don’t worry, Mom. I got this.” He looked so confident I almost believed him.

Soon he came back with a stick—cooking. Daniel turned his back to the camera, his face half-hidden from the lens. “I’m not that dumb. You think I’d pick singing? Dream on.”

I picked him up and kissed his cheek. “Mwah. Awesome, not singing. You know your mom can’t carry a tune.” He just stood there, face covered in my slobber, totally stunned.

I really am the villain for picking on kids, huh. The crew snickered behind their hands, and I couldn’t help but smirk. What can I say? Sometimes you just have to own it.

As a social media pro, I jumped on the trending topic. Using the $50 seed money from the show, I set up a stall outside the university selling hot cinnamon rolls. Time to hustle.

Setup: $10 for the table, $10 for cream, $10 for toppings, $10 for random stuff. I borrowed a coffee maker and a mixer from a nearby shop. Couldn’t get my hands on a waffle maker, so I hesitated, then bought one—$10. Gotta respect the dignity of a cinnamon roll.

I worked fast, and the stall was up and running in no time. When the waffles were cooking, the warm, sweet aroma drifted through the winter air, totally irresistible, and drew a crowd.

Of course, it wasn’t just the food that brought them over. “Isn’t that Samantha Grant?” “Must be—look at all those cameras. Filming a show?” People whispered and pointed, phones out.

I greeted them with my best reality-TV smile. “Hi, I’m Samantha Grant, filming ‘Mom, I Love You’ and taking my kid out for some fun. Selling cinnamon rolls to cover his meals—$2 each, $3 for two. Want to support us?” A few girls nodded shyly, and I couldn’t help but grin.

I rolled the waffles quick, slathered on a thick layer of cream cheese frosting, topped with warm apple slices, more cream, chocolate chips, and a pretzel stick for decoration. As I worked, I explained, “We use real dairy cream—the good stuff.”

I handed one to a girl, who took a bite and gave a thumbs up. I smiled at her—she blushed, kind of adorable. I made a few more: matcha red bean, bacon and cheddar, Oreo, freeze-dried strawberry… The combos kept coming.

All the while, Daniel was my little assistant, collecting payments. A lot of people slipped him extra, just for being cute. Is this the joy of child labor? Guess so.

Since his meals depended on it for the next three days, he didn’t mind hamming it up. Life’s tough—little wolves gotta hustle, too.

But he couldn’t let me coast. As sales picked up, he clutched his stomach, eyes brimming with tears. “Mom, I’m hungry.” For a second, I thought, here we go.

“Just a few more orders, baby. People are coming to pick them up—hang in there, okay?” I tossed it out there, keeping the crowd smiling. He pointed to his stomach, curling up like a little shrimp. “It hurts here.” He really sold it.

Yikes, can’t have the kid go hungry. I scooped out a big spoonful of apple filling. “Eat up, as much as you want.” Didn’t even give him a cup. Just kidding—those cost money.

Young Daniel had never been treated like this. He poked at the apples with his fork, but couldn’t bring himself to eat. “Come on, eat up. Your stomach’ll get upset.” Look at me, such a caring mom. Who am I kidding?

The little guy finally broke character, getting a bit fussy. “Mom, I want that one.” I almost smiled, but kept it together.

“Be good, baby. We can’t afford cream.” Today’s script: struggling single mom. I winked at the camera.

In the end, the little brat ate a bowl of apples with tears in his eyes. I took the chance to lay it on thick. “Danny, do you know how many people can’t even get apples to eat? Every bite is precious—finish it all, okay?”

What a meaningful birthday. We hit our $150 goal. I hung up the ‘Closed’ sign and gave Daniel a pat. “Let’s go get a feast.”

“Aunt Sam—” I turned around. Wasn’t that the diva’s kid? “Um… do you still have any cinnamon rolls?” The cool kid blushed, and I had to fight a grin.

“Of course!” I took down the sign. “Want to bring one for your mom?” I watched him squirm.

“Just one’s fine.” He looked nervous, shifting from foot to foot. I handed him a roll. He pursed his lips, said “thanks,” and was about to leave. Cute kid.

I stopped him. “How’s your mom doing?”

“We… Mom… got suckered by a sales pitch.” He looked back, little fists clenched, eyes rimmed with tears. I had to think of every sad thing in my life just to keep from laughing at how serious this kid was.

“What happened? Tell Auntie.”

He was only seven after all, so he spilled everything. The diva got lucky and drew singing. Spent all $50 on sound equipment. Her fans showered her with cash. She made a killing. Then blew it all on sushi for lunch. Kid’s got the whole story.

The poor kid was so anxious, tried to stop his unreliable mom. “Mom, save some for later. Who knows what’ll happen in three days.” “If we run out, we’ll just earn more. Live in the moment.” Mom’s answer was classic.

That afternoon, the show cut her off from big fan payments. By day’s end, the diva couldn’t even cover the $50 rental. She’d been wailing for three hours, her voice totally shot. I had to bite my lip not to laugh.

“Want me to buy her some medicine?”

“No, I want to borrow money so Mom can keep working and pay off her debt. She said she has to fix her own mistakes.”

I was impressed. Great kid—though kind of a little capitalist. Even her record label wouldn’t push her this hard.

“Sure, I’ll invest.” I agreed right away. “By the way, Eli, was the sushi good?”

“It was.”

I packed up to leave. “Then I’ll go eat some too.”

At only seven, Eli was already stressing over money for both families. From a distance, I saw the diva slumped on the curb, looking like the end of the world.

“Hello!” I greeted her. She saw me, lips moving, but I couldn’t hear her. Up close, she was mumbling, “Sandy, Sandy, what’s wrong with my voice?”

Lady, you’re in no shape for jokes. I handed her the equipment, her eyes lit up. Gave her lemon tea and canned peaches, and she clutched my hand, eyes brimming with tears.

Eli gave her his only cinnamon roll. Turns out he never meant to eat it himself. The diva was even more touched, promising she’d bounce back in an hour.

Great—get well soon so you can work off your debt. I took Eli out for sushi. Bye-bye.

He made sure his mom would pay me back—after all, I’m just a small business owner. No way the show could take that from me.

After eating, I realized—I left my own kid with the diva, probably starving. Sure enough, he was there, playing mascot. Hadn’t eaten all day but one bowl of apples. Poor kid, sulking in silence.

Silent duo. The diva sang a ballad, her smoky voice drifting through the city noise. Her tip jar was overflowing. Behind her, a sign: “No Freebies.”

Wait, what?

I looked back. Someone was wrapped up head to toe in burlap, with round sunglasses, trailed by a tiny moving bundle. Pretty sure that was the Best Actress.

She saw me and waved mysteriously. “Miss, want your fortune told?”

Oh, she drew fortune-telling. Alright, let’s play along.

I raised my voice. “You scam artist! You won’t fool me!” I stomped off, playing along.

“You come from a prominent family, hit it big at sixteen, shot to fame at twenty-seven. Am I right?”

“How’d you know?” I gasped. Did she memorize my bio?

Our banter drew a crowd, and her little girl, wrapped up in burlap, started dancing around—clearly her daughter. Soon people lined up for readings.

I pulled up my scarf to hide my face and slipped away…

“Fraud! Totally off! Scammer!”

Busted already? The crowd scattered, revealing two confused bundles. The little girl under the burlap was dizzy, plopped down on the ground.

I sighed. “What’d you say to get busted so fast?”

“I said she was almost thirty…”

“Girl, that’s risky whether you’re right or wrong.”

“Thirty’s a great age.”

“Maybe not to them.”

The Best Actress and I squatted on the curb, sharing a scarf, then both said, “Hey, wanna switch?”

So we did. She was apologetic. “You were doing great, I just couldn’t hack it. Fortune-telling is hard…”

“You take thirty, I take seventy from the cinnamon rolls.” That was that. “I wanted to try something new anyway.”

Lies—I was in my element. “You’re impatient, quick to anger, anxious, always torn between giving up and pushing through…”

“You have good luck with money, not so much with love. You have goals but struggle to act. Maybe this time, you’ll go with your heart.”

Easy money. Love it. Even got to sit on the ground.

Her little girl chanted “ooh la la” beside me, bouncing around like a backup dancer.

“Can you tell me about my love life?”

“Of course, two bucks a reading…” Huh? That voice sounded familiar.

I peeked over my sunglasses. Wasn’t that my brother-in-law?

“Sorry, we’re not a match. I can’t read you…”

No way—he and my sister are secretly married, he’s her ‘backer,’ and we barely know each other. What if I slip up?

He was about 6’1”, his shadow covering me, acting casual. “Just say whatever comes to mind.”

“You grew up privileged, proud, met a girl who moved you, but after marriage you became strangers…”

Someone like Luke Grant, who’d marry Samantha Grant, must’ve felt something for her, right?

“Not at all.” He shook his head, leaned down, his coat almost covering me. “I grew up with nothing, barely hanging on for years, just putting on a one-man show.”

I didn’t know how to respond, just stared at him.

“Well… sorry, I won’t take your two bucks.”

He placed a coin in front of me, looked up, and said, “But I did fall for someone.”

“So that’s one buck.” He smiled.

I watched him leave, then looked at the coin. All that time for a single coin and some cryptic words. But I kept the coin in my palm.

Back to counting money—counting up everything, mine and what the others chipped in, totaled exactly $450. A hundred and fifty a day, more than enough.

Suddenly I remembered my unlucky kid—why’s he so quiet? When kids are quiet, they’re up to something.

I started to panic, searched all over, and found him curled up in a corner on the second floor, not making a sound. No cameras around. My heart was pounding.

I got closer. He was shaking. “Daniel? Daniel? You little rascal!”

He shuddered, unfolded a bit, face pale and sweaty. I panicked. “Daniel? Are you okay? Where does it hurt?”

He pointed to his stomach. Again? Just one missed meal and he’s like this?

I gave him hot water, massaged his belly, and finally he felt better. He sat on the sofa, head down. “Hungry.”

“Then have your birthday cake.” I brought out the “cake.” Thin layers of apples and thick cream, lots of fruit inside, mostly mango. Six candles on top.

I lit the candles and turned off the lights. The little flames flickered in Daniel’s bright eyes. The soft glow made his cheeks look impossibly round, and for a moment, he looked so small and fragile, it almost broke my heart.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…”

Daniel squeezed his eyes shut to make a wish. When he opened them, tears were shining in the candlelight—he was crying. “Mom, you really can’t sing.”

Cheeky brat. Like you can talk. The laughter in my voice was real this time.

The cake wasn’t big, but Daniel ate the whole thing, didn’t leave me a crumb. Good boy—at least you’ll finish off the cinnamon roll leftovers.

I’d stuffed myself at dinner; couldn’t eat another bite. I leaned close to him. He tried to dodge but couldn’t escape. “Even now? Are we even?”

He couldn’t get away, grumbled, “It’s not your birthday.”

“Sure it is. Today’s your mom’s birthday. Didn’t you know?”

I wasn’t lying—today is Samantha’s birthday. Mine was yesterday. Just missed it by a day.

But now, it’s all the same. I am Samantha. I’m a grown-up, after all, so of course I played it up for the cameras.

When this aired, my reputation flipped overnight.

“If a kid forgets Mom’s birthday, it’s fair for Mom to forget his. Makes sense.”

“Honestly, she seems pretty good at raising kids. In the end, they basically swapped birthday cakes.”

“Sorry, but Danny getting bullied is even cuter. I want to squish him. I’m guilty.”

“Eli is so well-behaved too. Diva: I feel you, working people everywhere.”

“You’re all watching the kids, but I just want to know who that fortune-telling guy was! Why does he have weird chemistry with Samantha? When he looked down, it was like he let himself get pulled into her orbit.”

“Careful—her ‘backer’ might call you.”

…