My husband and his family spent months telling me to quit my “embarrassing gardening hobby” and get a real job. Their tune changed when the money rolled in, and suddenly they all wanted a piece. What I did next left them stunned.
Success reveals people’s true colors. I’m Clara, and my husband, Victor, now claims half of the business he once mocked as “embarrassing.” His family, who laughed at my efforts, now calls it a “family venture” after seeing my profits.
I work from home doing data entry for an insurance company—a soul-draining job for an outdoors lover like me. Victor, meanwhile, is a loan officer at a local bank.
Two years ago, staring at our expansive backyard, I saw potential. I’d studied horticulture in college before switching to business. Flowers were my passion.
Over dinner, I shared my idea. “Victor, what if I grew flowers in the backyard? Sold bouquets online?”
He didn’t look up from his plate. “Stick to your desk job, Clara. Flowers won’t pay the bills. It’s a silly hobby.”
“But I have the expertise. Online flower sales are growing.”
“Be realistic. You’re not a farmer. This isn’t some rustic fantasy.”
My cheeks flushed. “It could work.”
“Could and will are different. Don’t quit your job for a pipe dream.”
“I’m not quitting. I just want to try gardening.”
At a dinner with Victor’s parents, I mentioned my plan to his mother, Evelyn.
She nearly choked on her wine. “Gardening? For money? Oh, Clara, don’t embarrass yourself.”
Victor’s father, Harold, nodded. “Stick to what you know. Leave business to the men.”
His sister, Fiona, chimed in. “Why play in the dirt? Get a real job, like retail.”
Her husband, Leo, smirked. “Save flowers for retirement hobbies.”
Victor stayed silent, cutting his steak as his family dismantled my dream.
“Thanks for the support,” I said, forcing a smile.
Evelyn patted my hand. “We’re just realistic, dear. Dreams don’t pay bills.”
I ignored them. That Monday, I ordered seeds—sunflowers, zinnias, cosmos, marigolds. Simple, reliable blooms. After work, I prepped soil, planted, watered, and weeded. My hands got dirty, my back ached. Victor watched from the kitchen, shaking his head.
“Still digging in the dirt?” he mocked.
“Building something beautiful,” I replied.
“Building debt, you mean. Know how much you’ve spent?”
Every cent came from my paycheck. “It’s an investment.”
“It’s a money pit. You’re wasting time.”
“We’ll see, Victor.”
By winter, I had a small harvest, dried and arranged. I launched “Clara’s Blooms” online, posted photos on social media, and sold my first bouquet for $25 to a neighbor.
Victor scoffed. “Twenty-five bucks? Millionaires by Christmas!” He laughed.
His doubt didn’t shake me. The first year was tough, with little profit, but I learned. I researched top-selling flowers, refined arrangements, and built customer relationships. By year two, orders for weddings, anniversaries, and funerals came steadily. I worked past midnight, loving every moment.
Victor’s family kept up their jabs at gatherings.
“How’s the flower thing?” Fiona asked, feigning concern.
“Still playing farmer?” Harold chuckled.
But I persisted. By month 18, I covered groceries and utilities. By month 24, orders surged for spring events, graduations, and Mother’s Day. I was booked solid.
Victor took notice one evening as I counted cash. His eyes widened.
“Didn’t think your hobby would amount to anything,” he said.
“Thanks for the faith,” I replied, still counting.
“Now that it’s thriving, I want my share. Fifty percent.”
I laughed. “You’re joking.”
“Dead serious. This is my house, my soil.”
I turned to face him. “Our house. Both our names are on the deed.”
“I owned it before you. It’s mine. Fifty percent.”
“If you want to play that game, in a divorce, half would be mine anyway.”
He recoiled. “You’re overreacting, talking divorce over what I deserve.”
“Deserve? What have you done?”
“I provided the land, the space.”
“Your soil didn’t water itself or arrange bouquets. I did the work.”
“You used my resources, my house.”
“Our house, our resources. My sweat, my time, my customers.”
“Stop saying ‘my’ everything!” Victor snapped.
Word spread to his family about my earnings. Their tone shifted at the next dinner.
“We’re so proud of the family business, Clara!” Evelyn beamed.
“Family business?” I nearly dropped my fork.
“It’s family land,” Harold said. “That makes it a family business.”
“Your flowers grow on our heritage,” Evelyn added.
Leo jumped in. “You owe us a share. You wouldn’t have this without us.”
Fiona nodded. “We supported you from the start.”
“Supported me?” I stared. “You called it embarrassing, told me to get a retail job!”
“We were cautious,” Harold said. “Good business sense.”
“When I was hauling soil and working till 2 a.m., it wasn’t a family business. Now that it’s profitable, it is?”
Silence fell. Victor stared at his plate. Fiona frowned.
“Don’t be ungrateful,” Evelyn said coldly.
The arguments persisted for weeks. Every gathering became a negotiation, every talk with Victor a demand.
“You’re selfish,” he said one morning over coffee.
“I’m realistic.”
“My family deserves something for their support.”
“What support? Mocking my work?”
“We let you use our property.”
“It’s my home too, Victor.”
I realized they’d never stop claiming what I built. So, I acted. I took my profits, secured a small business loan, and bought a commercial property with greenhouse space. I signed the papers in my name.
The day I signed, I felt free. When Victor found out, he was furious.
“You’re shutting us out!” he yelled.
“You shut yourselves out when you laughed at my ‘useless hobby.’ Now it’s my freedom.”
Six months later, Clara’s Blooms thrives, serving weddings, corporate events, and funerals. I hired two part-time staff, and the loan is nearly paid off. Victor still tries to claim a share when he’s short on cash.
“We’re married. What’s yours is mine,” he says.
“Funny how that’s one-sided.”
His family drives by my new location. Evelyn called once to “check in.”
“We miss you at family dinners,” she said.
“You miss the profits more.”
“That’s unfair. We’re family.”
“Family believes in you from the start, not just when you succeed.”
Fiona posted online about “supporting small businesses,” tagging my shop. I ignored her.
When people ask about starting a business, I say: Share your success only with those who believed in you when you had nothing but dirt under your nails and dreams in your heart.
Victor and his family are still waiting for a cut they didn’t earn. They’ll wait a long time. The only one who gets a share of Clara’s Blooms is the one who watered it from day one—me.
