I grew up outside Chicago in a home that appeared fine from the street. The lawn was cut. The lights were on. We weren’t struggling in the obvious ways people recognize. But inside, I felt like background noise. Present, but not essential.
My parents, Greg and Claire, were not cruel in a loud, dramatic way. They didn’t shout daily or slam doors every night. Their neglect was quieter, which somehow made it harder to explain. They simply weren’t interested.
Their attention moved constantly, and I never made the list of priorities long enough to reach the top.
I stopped expecting birthday calls while I still had childhood posters on my wall. I learned not to wait for encouragement before a big exam. I learned to celebrate my own wins privately, because there’s nothing more painful than walking into the kitchen excited and realizing no one cares enough to look up.
As I got older, I built routines that had nothing to do with them. School. Part-time work. Reading. Quiet goals I didn’t share because sharing required trust.
Some kids rebel. Some kids plead. I did something else.
I became self-sufficient.
The One Adult Who Paid Attention
My grandfather, Richard Bennett, was the only person in my family who seemed to notice what was happening.
He wasn’t flashy, even though he had every reason to be. He had built serious wealth through real estate, the slow way. Not a lottery win. Not a lucky break. He bought properties, improved them, rented them, managed them, sold at the right times, and repeated the process with discipline that looked boring to outsiders.
To me, it looked like stability.
