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That was not my reality.
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.
They chased excitement and quick wins. They were always “working on something.” A new idea. A new business plan. A new group of people who made them feel important.
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.
The One Adult Who Paid Attention
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