We didn’t expect to cause a scene.
It was just a cute neighborhood event during our vacation in Brighton—a quirky Halloween-style parade where locals encouraged dressing up as anything British. So naturally, my daughter went full royal in her Queen Elizabeth outfit (corgis and all), and my son insisted on being her royal guard, complete with the fuzzy bearskin hat and a very plastic rifle.
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People loved it.
Tourists clapped, Brits chuckled, someone even offered them tea biscuits on the spot. It was lighthearted, silly, and honestly, one of my favorite parenting wins.
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Until we came across her.
We were near the end of the parade route, and the kids were laughing, basking in the attention as we walked through the streets. Their excitement was infectious, and I couldn’t help but beam with pride at how into it they were. As we neared the town square, I saw a woman standing on the corner, watching us. At first, she seemed like just another amused onlooker—clapping along with everyone else—but her gaze lingered on us, sharp and piercing.
She was older, maybe in her sixties, wearing a heavy wool coat and a scarf that was wrapped too tightly around her neck. She had an air of something about her, a certain coldness that set her apart from the rest of the warm, jovial crowd.
As we approached, she raised an eyebrow and looked at my daughter’s Queen Elizabeth costume first, then at my son’s royal guard outfit. Her lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, but it was enough to make me feel a little uneasy.
“Excuse me,” she said, her voice unexpectedly stern.
I hesitated, unsure of what was coming, but I nodded politely. “Yes?”
“I hope you’re not teaching your children that the monarchy is something to be celebrated,” she said, her tone not just critical but almost scornful.
I blinked, momentarily stunned. “Sorry, what?”
“The monarchy,” she repeated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re encouraging them to dress up as figures who represent a system of power, privilege, and oppression. Have you thought about what that actually means?”
I was taken aback. Of all the reactions I had anticipated, this wasn’t even close to one of them. She was practically glaring at me now, her eyes filled with something that bordered on disdain.
“I—uh…” I didn’t know how to respond. It wasn’t exactly the kind of conversation I expected to have at a lighthearted neighborhood parade. I glanced at my kids, still giggling, oblivious to the tension that was suddenly thick in the air.
The woman continued, her voice rising with every word. “I just think it’s irresponsible, letting them idolize people who represent centuries of colonialism and inequality. You have no idea what they’ve done to the world, to countries, to cultures, do you?”
At this point, I was starting to feel the heat in my cheeks. This wasn’t the festive atmosphere I had hoped for, but what really bothered me was how she was speaking to me—like I was somehow ignorant for allowing my kids to have a bit of fun.
But then I thought about it. Maybe she had a point. My family’s trip to England had been all about experiencing the culture—the history, the humor, the traditions. We hadn’t thought much about the darker sides of those things, not in the context of a playful Halloween parade.
Still, I wasn’t prepared to let my kids’ innocence be attacked by a stranger.
“I understand your perspective,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “But they’re kids. They’re dressing up because it’s fun, not because they understand the full weight of history. It’s just a costume.”
The woman scoffed, crossing her arms tightly. “That’s exactly the problem. You should be teaching them more. You should be teaching them to question, to think critically about the systems they inherit, not just blindly celebrating them. But I suppose that’s too much to ask from people who come here for a vacation and only want the good parts of the story.”
I wanted to argue, to defend the innocent joy I saw in my children’s faces, but something in her words made me pause. There was truth in what she was saying, but it didn’t make me feel any less protective of my children’s playful excitement.
Before I could respond, my daughter—blissfully unaware of the tension—pulled at my sleeve. “Mom, look! I’m so pretty, just like the queen!” she exclaimed, spinning around in her royal gown.
The woman looked down at my daughter and, for the briefest of moments, her hard expression softened. But then it was gone, replaced by a scowl.
“This is exactly what I mean,” she muttered under her breath, before walking off briskly, her footsteps echoing louder than I would have liked.
I stood there for a few seconds, processing the encounter. The festive mood that had been so easy to slip into now felt awkward, tainted. My kids were still obliviously enjoying their parade, but I felt a shift inside me—a mix of discomfort and reflection. Maybe she was right about some things, but was I supposed to stop them from having fun because of a complex history I didn’t fully understand? Was it my responsibility to shield them from every controversial aspect of the world?
I took a deep breath and smiled at my kids. They were happy, and no matter how uncomfortable I felt, I knew they deserved that joy. After all, they were still young, still learning, still forming their own perspectives. There was time for those deeper conversations later.
We continued walking, but the encounter with the woman lingered in my mind. Later that evening, I did some quick research on the British monarchy—about their role in colonialism, the global impact they’d had over the centuries. The more I read, the more I realized that there were layers I hadn’t considered, and there was a part of me that felt embarrassed. But I also knew that I couldn’t dwell on guilt. There were no perfect answers, no clear-cut solutions. Life was far too complicated for that.
As we packed up and got ready to head home, I realized something important. I couldn’t shield my children from every uncomfortable reality in the world, nor could I control how others would react to their innocent fun. But I could teach them to think critically, to ask questions, and to embrace the complexity of the world as they grew older. I could teach them to appreciate history—not just the parts that made them feel good, but also the parts that required deeper understanding.
A few months later, I was surprised when my daughter came home from school one day and asked about the monarchy. It was a simple question: “Mom, why do people still like the queen if she wasn’t always nice to everyone?”
I had been waiting for that moment, and I wasn’t ready to shy away from it. We sat down together, and I told her what I’d learned. We talked about the good and the bad parts of history, the parts that people sometimes choose to ignore. It wasn’t a conversation I thought I’d have so soon, but I was proud of how she listened. And I was proud of myself for not shutting down the conversation when it had first been brought up.
Sometimes, life gives you uncomfortable moments, situations that make you pause and reconsider. But it’s those moments that give you the chance to grow. If we only ever celebrated the easy parts of history and ignored the harder truths, we’d never really learn anything.
So, that day at the parade, I learned something unexpected—about the world, about my children, and about myself. The woman’s words had stung, but they also pushed me to think more deeply. And in the end, I realized that parenting isn’t about protecting our children from every uncomfortable truth; it’s about preparing them to face those truths with open hearts and minds.
If you’ve ever had a moment that made you question your beliefs, I hope you find the courage to dig deeper, to keep learning. We don’t have to have all the answers right away, but we can always strive to be better tomorrow than we were yesterday.
