My Father’s Dream Was Never My Own
I spent most of my life as a nepo baby — but not the successful kind. More like the kind who has a hard time saying “no” to family and ends up doing a bunch of underpaid work.
Growing up, my parents were both small business owners. My dad ran an art business and a print shop that were attached to each other, and my mom ran a rubber stamp store. All three were in the same little converted house building on a random highway.
I was dragged in to the office every day to help with things like sorting, stocking, and watching the stamp store counter when my mom needed a break. During the holiday season, the stamps would go on the road to things like holiday bazaars and scrapbooking meetups, and I’d be right there to help set up a booth and then run around seeing if I could get some free samples of beef jerky.
Deep down, my dad didn’t want any of this folksy art-infused charm or its many successes, for some reason. He had developed a business out of painting detailed watercolor posters of towns with logos from various local shops pasted on them, but what he really wanted was to be in radio broadcasting. Going all the way back to when he was a tiny kid, he intensely wanted to own his own station, and he never lost this dream.
