I Regret the Times I Beat My Daughter (In Races)
A Thanksgiving remembered, did I have the wrong priority?
This Thanksgiving, as I reflect in a quiet holiday with my current wife, my thoughts wander to a different Thanksgiving years ago. My daughter was 12 then, a loving child I couldn’t have imagined ever growing distant. It’s bitter to think of our estranged relationship today.
After my parents passed away, the tradition of home-cooked family dinners faded. Instead, we gathered at a Pennsylvania resort, nestled beside the Delaware River. That day was quintessentially autumnal — a sharp, crisp air mingled with the earthy scent of fallen leaves, a few stubborn ones in yellow, gold, and brown still clinging to the branches.
In a burst of youthful energy, my daughter challenged me to a race across the sprawling lawn towards the river. She was just reaching the age where her speed was a genuine match for mine. As we dashed across the grass, I faced a dilemma — whether to let her win or to show that I could still triumph. I was acutely aware of our age difference; I was 50 years her senior, a latecomer to parenthood. This gap always loomed over me, especially as she neared her prime and I edged towards elderhood in a world where most parents were much younger.
Driven by a desire to be seen as strong and capable, I dug deep. Each stride was a maximum effort. Would this be the last time I could prevail? I was embarrassed that I had to push past my limits, feeling my lungs burn in the cold air, barely reaching the riverbank before her. The day stands so clearly in my memory. A perfect crystal of clarity out of time in my mind.
A similar incident later during a ski trip in Vermont also echoes. There, after a wonderful day of outdoor activities, the same need to prove myself overtook me on a children’s obstacle course. I felt she needed to remember me as fit and vital. But it was her mother’s whispered reminder of my daughter’s frustration that brought a piercing clarity, after I was faster once — she was discouraged, and I needed to let her have a win, which, of course, I did.
Now, without her during the holidays, these memories are colored with a poignant mix of sweetness and sorrow. I recall the crisp autumn air that day, our shared laughter that Thanksgiving, and the fierce determination in my daughter’s eyes — everything holding a deep sense of regret. My desire to be remembered as vital and robust led me to overlook moments for her to shine in her own strength. Those seemingly trivial races have now taken on a more profound significance in her absence.
Last year sharing the story of our estrangement with an advice columnist at the Washington Post, the responses in the comments section were harsh. Some commentators even went so far as to insinuate that I might have actually been abusive towards her.
In reliving these small, now profound, incidents — I realize the complexity of parenthood and memory. These memories, while painful, have offered lessons about the delicate balance between strength and vulnerability, the need of a parent to show strength and still give a child pride in growing.
