My supervisor valued me. My coworkers were great. Two more years and I'd have made manager.
But I quit anyway. Joined Grandwell Group, starting from the very bottom as a junior sales rep.
A lot of people didn't understand. They said I was asking for trouble.
My father-in-law's company. A son-in-law's identity.
Do well, and it's expected. Do poorly, and everything's your fault.
I told them I knew.
But what I knew even better was this: only by making something of myself on that stage would Kevin Swanson ever look at me as an equal.
I could handle hardship. I could swallow my pride.
Those first six months, I woke up at six every morning and didn't get home until eleven at night. I covered every street in Riverside City, walked into every office building. In summer, my dress shirts soaked through with sweat. In winter, my fingers went stiff from the cold. I never complained. Not once.
One time, I waited outside a client's office for three hours just to get a meeting. The receptionist felt bad for me and brought me a cup of water. I said thank you and kept standing there.
When the client finally came out and saw me, he paused. "You've got guts, kid."
That deal closed at one point eight million.
I drank with clients. Wine, whiskey, beer—whatever they poured, I drank. One night I drank until my stomach bled. Drove myself to the hospital at two in the morning, got an IV, and went back to work the next day.
Sales is a funny thing. Hard and simple at the same time.
The hard part is earning trust. The simple part is that if you genuinely look out for someone, they can feel it.
I never oversold. What I could offer, I offered. What I couldn't, I said so upfront.
Slowly, repeat clients piled up. Referrals kept coming in.
Through sheer, relentless effort, I was Grandwell's top salesman three years running.
At the annual awards banquet, Kevin sat at the head table, wineglass in hand, eyes on the stage.
I walked off after accepting my award, and only then did he give me a nod.
"Not bad. Keep it up."
Eight words. That was it.
Not even a smile.
I didn't let it bother me. I told myself I was doing this for me, not for him.
And deep down, I knew the truth. In his eyes, I was nothing.
Clients came because of Grandwell's reputation. Deals closed because of the company's resources.
I was just the errand boy.
It wasn't until last year, after Prudence insisted again and again, that he finally promoted me to supervisor.
The day I got the promotion, Prudence was thrilled. She said we should go out for dinner to celebrate.
I said sure, let's invite your dad too.
She said she'd asked. He said he was busy.
Busy. Always busy.
At dinner, Prudence kept putting food on my plate. "You're a supervisor now," she said. "You don't have to push yourself so hard anymore."
I told her I still needed to push. Supervisor wasn't the finish line.
She smiled but didn't say anything.
I knew what she wanted to say.
She wanted to say: You could push yourself for the rest of your life, and my father still wouldn't be satisfied.
For Prudence's sake, I never held anything against Kevin.
He was her father. That alone was reason enough to take whatever he threw at me.
Called me useless? Fine.
Said I married above my station? Fine.
Said my whole family was riding on his coattails? Fine.
I let it all roll off my back.
But humiliating my mother? That crossed the line.
I barely spoke during dinner. My mom was careful too, glancing up at me every now and then.
I knew what she wanted to ask but didn't dare.
Halfway through the meal, my phone rang.
It was Prudence.
I stared at her name on the screen. Didn't answer.
She called again.
I still didn't answer.
A moment later, a WhatsApp message came through.
"Rudolph, where are you?"
"I made that soup you love. When are you coming home?"
