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I grew up in a house where appearances mattered more than accomplishments. My parents preached discipline and respect at the dinner table, but those lessons seemed to apply only to their children, never to themselves. Our modest two‑story home sat in the middle of a neighborhood where everyone knew everyone else’s business, and my parents made sure their version of our family’s story was the one being told.

My mother collected porcelain figurines and displayed them in a glass cabinet that took up half the living room wall. She dusted them every Sunday after church, handling each piece like it contained the secrets of our family’s worth. My father drove a ten‑year‑old sedan, but waxed it every weekend until it gleamed like new. They understood the power of perception, even if they couldn’t afford the reality behind it.