1.
Maybe it started on June 28th, 2019. That’s when the kids began their first day of summer holidays. Anticipation melted off of them like an ice cream cone left for dead on a hot summer sidewalk. My husband, Jamie, was smack dab in the middle of his railroad conductor training. I was wrapping things up from another life, assuring that this previous existence would not stretch out and grab us. I didn’t realize then that it would take a lot more than some paperwork and bread ties to close that chapter of our lives.
No, the real trouble started earlier than that. December 2018, let’s say. That’s when the hard decisions were laid down in front of us.
Globules of tears run down my mascara lined face. I am hyperventilating. I cannot breathe. Jamie sits on the opposite side of our kitchen table, he too has tears rolling down his cheeks, bloodshot eyes, and that familiar furrow to his brow. Between us is a kitchen table full of debt. The lines of credit, the overdue bills, the overdraft notices we have accumulated since starting our business.
“We can’t keep going like this,” he says.
“We can’t stop,” I say, “we can’t just quit.”
“It’s not working. The business plan isn’t working. We just don’t have the clientele coming in. We will have to go bankrupt by year-end if this keeps up.” He sweeps his hand over the table as if he showing off a pile of precious goods.
“But the business is good. People love it.” I am pleading now. There is something in my voice that I hate. Something pensive and fussy that I’ve never heard before. It exposes my desperation.
If we shut down our business, our little sandwich shop/bakery that we have poured so much into, what will I have then? What will make me unique? I am disgusted by this revelation—this pathetic expose of Lindsay Rae Brown. The girl who craves the limelight.
At this moment, as my husband and I delve into the severe shit-storm we have found ourselves in, I realize what exactly it is that I’m so worried about. This thing that’s been pulling at my conscience since becoming fully aware of our financial problems.
“What will I do after it’s gone?” I ask with surprising clarity. My husband is a Red Seal Chef, he has options. He has an education and a degree under his belt. For the last ten years, I have focused on raising children. I’ve had the occasional part-time job here and there, but nothing substantial. Nothing to proudly place on a resume. Maybe it’s not the limelight I seek, but something meaningful.
The kids are growing fast and will soon be working on their own life projects. Although their dad and I will always be there for them first and foremost, I am a firm believer that we, as parents, must continue to carve out our own hopes and desires during the child-rearing years. You know, so not to become one of those, live-vicariously-through-your-kid type people. If we do not have a business to coddle where that does leave me?
Jamie takes me in his arms and kisses my forehead in the same way he has always done. The way he did when we first stood in his mother’s basement, young, stoned, and unaffected by the ways of this world, and he told me he loved me for the first time.
“You’ll write. You can finally focus on your writing. Do something with it now.” He is whispering this in my ear, as though to keep a secret from the reality we are threatening to leave. “We’ve spent so much time trying to make my dream come to life, you’ve never had the chance to try at yours.” His voice hitches and I know he is just as terrified at the prospect of a new life as I am. We hold each other in our kitchen, unease leaking out our brains and onto a dirty floor, and we wonder how it ended up like this.
2.
Small business is complicated in the best of times. Ideally, one would want to have a secondary income to live off of while building their business up. Allowing all monies that come into the company to stay there to enable growth and development.
We moved to Lethbridge, Alberta, to start a sandwich shop. And to all intents and purposes, it was a success. Even the books said so. After the first full year, we had turned a small profit. Granted, the only way we did this was by naming the thing a mom and pop shop and powering it solely through us. No staff, just Jamie and me. However, the profit was little, I mean very little, and that small profit is what we, a family of four, used to live.
As a growing household in this modern age, it simply wasn’t enough. However, with our business model, both Jamie and I needed to be at the shop, nearly 12 hours a day. So getting secondary jobs was out of the question.
We did this for three years. We did what any great entrepreneur tells a new business owner not to do. We made the thing our baby. We sacrificed for it. We, as a family unit, went without in order to feed the business.
In the end, the business sank us. Although the company looked okay (not great, but okay) on paper, if anyone were to take a look into our personal finances, they would likely pull a Wile E. Coyote and run for the hills through a brick wall. We had been living off credit for three years, and finally, the credit had run out. Whether it was our lack of startup capital, shortage of business know-how, or maybe, mom and pop shops were simply becoming a thing of that past; survival was becoming increasingly difficult.
I do know that our following was solid, and the customer base we had was loyal and loving. We had 5-star ratings on both Google and Facebook. Trip Advisor loved us as we were continually receiving rave reviews from hungry travelers. We seldom had a customer leave unhappy. I don’t want to sound braggy, but I need to include this part. It’s more for me than it is for you. I need to reiterate that despite the heartache this business and the loss of it caused, it did some good too. We fed our community; we donated to local causes and, in turn, made lasting friendships with incredible people. We were welcomed into the local community with open arms. It was an excellent time to be a small business owner as far as friendships go. As far as business goes, the chain stores and online ordering sites had us dog-tired and waving the white flag.
3.
Six months after our kitchen table realization, I am clearing out the last of the bay. We have not sold the business but, instead, are dissolving it. What a morbid turn of phrase. It reminds me of murdering a thing and liquefying the body in a tub of acid. I mean it works though, it’s an accurate description of how dissolving a business feels. We were unsuccessful in selling the company, which begs the question, was it as great as we thought it was?
At this time, emotions whip through the air on invisible jet streams, waiting to strike at any given moment. I might be scrubbing a particularly tough stain off of the floor where the deep freeze once sat, wondering what next is in store for me, when the desperation hits me. It slips in through my ear and burrows into my consciousness. There it pecks away, eventually bringing to light the failure, the colossal botch this endeavor has become.
I have never been less confident than the day I handed over the keys to an empty bay, which once housed our budding little business.