I’d been painting tiny rainbows and Spiderman masks for three hours when it finally hit me: none of this felt like charity.

Every year, our family threw this grand summer fair in Oakridge Park. It was supposed to be “for the community,” but if I’m honest, I think it was more of a tradition we kept for the sake of it. Melissa, my cousin, took charge of organizing it ever since she turned twenty-five. Now she was thirty-two and treated it like it was Coachella. She wore this custom-branded vest that read “Event Director,” held a clipboard with color-coded tabs, and yelled into a walkie-talkie like she was coordinating air traffic control.

“Just bring some paint and brushes,” she said when she roped me into volunteering. “You’re artistic! The kids love face painting.”

So I said yes. I figured it would be a cute, wholesome way to spend my Saturday. I dropped two hundred bucks at the art store buying high-quality hypoallergenic paints, brand-new brushes, stencils, glitter, and even a foldable mirror for the kids to admire themselves. I didn’t ask for reimbursement. It was for the community, right?

When I arrived at the fair, it was already buzzing. There were stalls with cotton candy, balloon animals, lemonade stands, even a petting zoo in the far corner. I found my booth—a collapsible table under a white canopy. A hand-painted sign read, “Face Painting – $20.” No mention of the charity or where the money was going, but I didn’t think much of it at the time.

I painted nonstop for hours. Tigers, butterflies, dragons, unicorns. I even did a full-face Darth Maul on one determined little boy. The line never got shorter, and I was in the zone. Melissa floated by once in a while, flashing her perfect teeth, offering a thumbs-up. “Looking great, Carley!” she’d chirp before disappearing into the crowd.

I didn’t see a dollar of the money being collected, but again—I figured it was being funneled into the donation pool. Until that little girl with pink pigtails and a serious stare asked, “Can I get a receipt?”

“A receipt?” I repeated, blinking. My hands were covered in gold glitter.

“My mom needs it for the card charge,” she said, holding up a shiny unicorn-painted arm.

I followed her finger to a booth near the popcorn stand. Melissa’s booth. Sleek black tablecloth, mini bouquet of daisies, and one of those square card readers plugged into her phone. Behind her, a sign with pastel letters read, “Donations – For the Children.” And taped beside that, a menu: Premium Designs – $5 Extra.

I played it cool, kept painting, but my mind was buzzing. When my line finally died down around 3 p.m., I pretended I was going for water and wandered toward her booth. She was busy chatting up a dad with three kids, so I just hung around. That’s when I saw her phone screen.

A transaction history was pulled up. Charges scrolling down: $20, $25, $20, $30. Each labeled under something called “Canvas Kids LLC.” I quietly pulled out my own phone and typed it into Google. And there it was—Canvas Kids LLC: “We bring the party to you!” An event company for children’s parties, with balloon artists, face painters, petting zoos, you name it. Owner and founder? Melissa H. Logan.

My stomach turned.

I walked away before she saw me. Sat behind my booth, sipping a bottle of lukewarm water, replaying every smug smile she’d given me since this morning. I texted her, casual-like.

Me: “Hey, how many kids did we paint today? Just curious—trying to calculate how much we raised for the community.”

No response. I waited fifteen minutes. Painted a sleepy sun on a toddler’s nose.

Still nothing.

At 4:23, she replied:
Melissa: “Oh, at least 70! Great turnout! Thanks again for all your help 💖”

Seventy kids. At twenty dollars each. That’s $1,400. And that’s not including the $5 “premium” upsells.

I don’t know what possessed me, but I texted again.

Me: “Cool. So what’s the plan for distributing the funds?”

She left me on read.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept scrolling through the Canvas Kids website. She’d posted testimonials from parents, pictures from other fairs and birthdays. One of the pictures? From our family fair two years ago. Same booth. Same sign. Same setup.

Had she been running a business under the guise of our charity event this whole time?

I decided to confront her. The next morning, I drove to her condo downtown, a sleek little unit with a rooftop garden and a concierge. Melissa opened the door wearing matching workout gear and a messy bun. She looked surprised to see me.

“Carley! What’s up?”

I stepped in. “We need to talk about yesterday.”

She didn’t even pretend not to know. She sighed, walked into her kitchen, poured herself a smoothie. “Look,” she said, “It’s not what you think.”

I crossed my arms. “Then tell me what it is.”

“I started Canvas Kids last year,” she said, leaning against the counter. “I’ve been investing my own money into it. Equipment, branding, marketing. I used the fair to promote it a little. That’s all.”

“You charged people under your company’s name. You made money off an event the family thought was for the community.”

“I donated some of it,” she said quickly. “And besides, I ran the whole event. Do you have any idea how much time and effort that takes?”

“So why not tell us it was a paid gig? I wouldn’t have volunteered for free if I knew you were pocketing the profits.”

She looked offended. “You think I’m pocketing it? I’m building something. I’ve been working nonstop to get this company off the ground.”

“At the expense of your own family?”

That stung. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No, I’m being honest. You lied by omission. You let all of us believe we were donating our time and energy to charity, when really, we were helping you run a business.”

Silence stretched between us.

I walked out.

Two days later, Melissa sent a group email to the family. In it, she apologized. She admitted she’d used the fair as a launchpad for her business and promised to donate half the proceeds from the event—about $800—to a local children’s art program. She also offered to reimburse volunteers for supplies if we sent her receipts.

I didn’t send mine. I’d already accepted I wouldn’t see that money again.

But a week after that, I got a call from the Oakridge Elementary PTA. They wanted to hire me directly for their upcoming Fall Festival—face painting, with a real paycheck and everything. Turns out a few of the parents had loved my designs, asked for my contact info, and decided I should get paid for my work.

So I guess Melissa wasn’t the only one promoting something that day.

I still don’t know if she really regrets it, or if she just got caught. But she hasn’t tried to defend it publicly since. Maybe that’s something.

As for me? I started my own little thing—FacePop! Designs. Just a one-woman show for now, but the emails keep coming in.

Funny how trying to help the community ended up helping me see mine a little clearer.

Have you ever volunteered for something, only to realize it wasn’t what it seemed? Share your story—I’d love to hear it. And if this made you think twice about “charity” events, give it a like and pass it on.