We hadn’t set out to make a scene.
It was just a charming little neighborhood parade we stumbled on during our trip to Brighton—a playful, Halloween-style event where locals were encouraged to dress up as anything distinctly British. Naturally, my daughter chose to go all-in as Queen Elizabeth, corgis included. My son was thrilled to be her royal guard, fuzzy bearskin hat and a very obviously fake rifle completing the look.
People were delighted.
Tourists smiled, locals laughed, and someone even handed them tea biscuits mid-parade. It was lighthearted, silly, and genuinely one of those parenting moments that makes you feel like you’re doing something right.
Until we saw her.
We were near the end of the route, the kids still bubbling with excitement, soaking up the smiles and attention. I was grinning too, caught up in their joy. That’s when I noticed her—a woman standing off to the side, watching us with a look that didn’t quite match the festive mood. She was older, maybe in her sixties, bundled in a thick wool coat and a scarf wound tightly around her neck. Something about her felt colder than the rest of the cheerful crowd.
At first, I thought she was just another curious onlooker. But her eyes stayed locked on us as we came closer—sharp, almost scrutinizing.
Her expression shifted slightly when she looked at my daughter’s regal outfit, then my son’s guard costume. Her lips tightened just enough to send a ripple of discomfort through me.
Then she spoke.
“Excuse me,” she said, her tone clipped and stern.
I paused, unsure what she wanted, but smiled politely. “Yes?”
“I hope you’re not teaching your children to celebrate the monarchy,” she said flatly, with a disapproving edge.
I blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“The monarchy,” she repeated, her voice heavy with meaning. “You’re having them dress up as symbols of a system built on privilege, oppression, and power. Have you ever thought about what that truly represents?”
I stood there, caught completely off guard. Of all the responses we’d received that day, this was the last one I expected. Her eyes didn’t waver—there was something intense in them, a deep-rooted conviction.
“I… I didn’t think of it like that,” I said quietly, glancing at my kids who were still laughing, unaware of the sudden chill in the air.
She wasn’t done. Her voice grew firmer, rising just a bit with each sentence. “It’s irresponsible—encouraging children to idolize an institution responsible for centuries of colonization and injustice. Do you even understand what that legacy means? What it’s done to entire nations and cultures?”
At that point…