MY KIDS DRESSED UP FOR A LOCAL PARADE DURING OUR ENGLAND TRIP, BUT ONE WOMAN’S REACTION STOPPED ME COLD

We expected nothing more than a bit of fun when we joined Brighton’s Halloween-style “Dress British” parade. My daughter proudly donned a miniature Queen Elizabeth gown, corgis stitched onto her sash, while my son marched beside her as a royal guard in a tall bearskin hat, plastic rifle at the ready. Onlookers applauded, tourists snapped photos, someone even pressed tea biscuits into their hands. The afternoon felt like a parenting highlight—until we reached the town square.

There, an older woman stood apart from the crowd, bundled in a heavy wool coat and too-tight scarf. Her eyes locked onto my children, amusement hardening into something colder. “Excuse me,” she said, voice clipped. “I hope you’re not teaching them to celebrate the monarchy.” Confused, I managed a polite “Pardon?” She launched into a stern lecture about power, privilege and colonialism, accusing me of glamorizing centuries of oppression. My cheeks burned as she questioned whether I understood the darker side of the crown.

I tried to keep my tone calm. “They’re just kids in costumes. They don’t grasp that history yet.” She scoffed. “That’s the problem—you’re giving them pageantry without context.” Before I could reply, my daughter twirled, delighted with her dress. The woman’s expression softened for a heartbeat, then tightened again. “Exactly my point,” she muttered, turning sharply and disappearing into the crowd.

The parade continued, but her words clung to me. That evening in our hotel room, curiosity outweighed the sting of the encounter. I read about Britain’s imperial past—the wealth extracted, the cultures reshaped, the lingering inequities. The more I learned, the more I realized how little I’d considered those layers while planning cheerful family outings.

Back home months later, my daughter surprised me: “Mom, why do some people love the queen if she wasn’t nice to everyone?” It was the moment I’d been waiting for. We sat together and talked—about ceremonies and colonies, tradition and accountability, heroes who aren’t perfect. She listened, asked more questions, and I felt proud we could explore both the sparkle and the shadows.

That woman’s harsh approach still feels unfair, but she forced me to dig deeper and model real curiosity for my children. I can’t shield them from every uncomfortable truth, yet I can equip them to face the world with open minds and thoughtful questions. If a stranger’s challenge nudges us toward better conversations, maybe that awkward moment in Brighton was another parenting win after all.