He didn’t think of himself that way, of course.
In his mind, he was practical. Honest. Old-school. A man who “told it like it is.” Those were his favorite words anytime he upset someone and wanted to make it sound like a virtue.
What he really was, underneath all that polished language and chest-puffed authority, was selfish.
He had always measured people by usefulness. How much they admired him. How little they challenged him. How convenient they were.
My sister Lisa had spent most of her adult life treating him like the sun rose and set at his command. Her husband, Brent, laughed at every bad joke Richard told and nodded along as if listening to a financial genius instead of a retired hardware store owner who had lost half his savings in dumb investment schemes and blamed everyone else for it. Their two kids—Tyler and Brooke—were, in Richard’s eyes, perfect. Tyler played baseball. Brooke danced competitively. Both had learned early how to smile on cue, say “Yes, Grandpa,” and marvel at his gifts with the performance quality of trained actors.
