The peanut-butter stain on Alyssa’s blouse could wait. It might even be useful.

She still needed three posts to hit today’s bonus.

The kids were at school. Greg was at work. The house was silent in a temporary, borrowed way. She had learned to work quickly inside that silence.

At the front door, a stack of packages leaned against the broom closet. Throughout the week, her scrolling had produced this small mountain. She told herself the products were useful—cleaners, organizers, things she would have bought anyway. She also told herself the money could mean a family trip, a rented cabin, proof that this time of her life counted for something.

Her world had been larger before the twins were born. Now her Google Maps history traced a tight loop: daycare, Walmart, the in-law's house, home. She dressed for efficiency. She did not expect to be seen.

TikTok had surprised her. At first it was just girls—young, smooth-faced—making everything look good. Then she learned there were women like her. Stay-at-home moms filming in cars and kitchens, selling vacuums and lipsticks, talking about commissions like insider knowledge. They spoke with certainty. They belonged somewhere.

Her first video was awkward. Bad lighting. The wrong angle. Her face looked older than she felt. She posted it anyway.

What TikTok gave her wasn’t youth or beauty or even much money. It gave her proof that she could still enter a room and be acknowledged. Questions about her favorite products came in. Advice. Inside jokes. Women who knew her name.

She set up her phone again, the stained blouse still on.

Does this stain remover pen actually work? I'm going to try removing this, watch me try ladies, she practiced saying.

The window of silence her video needed was ending. Soon the house would fill.

She pressed record.

The peanut-butter stain on Alyssa’s blouse could wait. It might even be useful.

She still needed three posts to hit today’s bonus.

The kids were at school. Greg was at work. The house was silent in a temporary, borrowed way. She had learned to work quickly inside that silence.

At the front door, a stack of packages leaned against the broom closet. Throughout the week, her scrolling had produced this small mountain. She told herself the products were useful—cleaners, organizers, things she would have bought anyway. She also told herself the money could mean a family trip, a rented cabin, proof that this time of her life counted for something.

Her world had been larger before the twins were born. Now her Google Maps history traced a tight loop: daycare, Walmart, the in-law's house, home. She dressed for efficiency. She did not expect to be seen.

TikTok had surprised her. At first it was just girls—young, smooth-faced—making everything look good. Then she learned there were women like her. Stay-at-home moms filming in cars and kitchens, selling vacuums and lipsticks, talking about commissions like insider knowledge. They spoke with certainty. They belonged somewhere.

Her first video was awkward. Bad lighting. The wrong angle. Her face looked older than she felt. She posted it anyway.

What TikTok gave her wasn’t youth or beauty or even much money. It gave her proof that she could still enter a room and be acknowledged. Questions about her favorite products came in. Advice. Inside jokes. Women who knew her name.

She set up her phone again, the stained blouse still on.

Does this stain remover pen actually work? I'm going to try removing this, watch me try ladies, she practiced saying.

The window of silence her video needed was ending. Soon the house would fill.

She pressed record.