AUGUST 8, 2025 – Over the years our older son Cory has given my wife and me ample reason not to be judgmental of other people’s parenting. He’s been through a lot—as have we, his parents. Much of his struggles, one might say, is “self-inflicted,” but since I can’t walk in his shoes, I hesitate to characterize them as entirely self-induced. Human beings are complicated, and in trying to divine exactly why and how Cory’s made some of the turns he has, I’m less than confident. Now I strive to avoid making any judgments. He’s 39 years old, and from personal experience and observation, I can say we become less likely to change habits, outlook or disposition as we age, starting at his age, if not sooner; we actively resist change when we’re directed by others.
As a parent of this unusually gifted, big-hearted but frustrated and often hesitant soul, I’ve learned to be a “listener-in-chief.” When he was a precocious child, we presumed he was replete with worldly potential and thus, showered him with opportunities and the best possible education. And of course, at every turn we told him “how much he was loved,” not just by us but by everyone. But we never figured out how to walk in his shoes; how to understand his mighty struggles over adoption issues and his identity related thereto. In the attempt to impose our expectations on the perfectly formed child, we failed to see clearly his complicated needs and desires, most central being a kind of self-acceptance and reconciliation.
Only in very recent years have I figured out that argument and judgment are impediments to understanding—Cory specifically but people generally. You have to shift from “quick control” mode (“you should [do this, that or the other]”) to a “slow listening” gear (“tell me more about that”). Cory has always been unusually articulate, especially so when expressing his innermost feelings. Since this ability is one of his biggest assets, I say, “Let him use it!”
As you may know, Cory has a daughter, who is the delight of our lives. In so many ways she is a “mini-Cory,” as her doting great aunt Jenny (“Gaga”) describes her. This “mini-Cory” shares her father’s artistic talents and facility with language—but also his reticence. She has his perfectly round head and good looks (along with her mother’s!), but most amusingly, on command she can mimic exactly Cory’s various patentable facial expressions.
Father and daughter are peas in a pod. They’ve become a competitive gamer duo, and they share an E.Q. that’s way off the charts. They’re both amazingly insightful about “what makes people tick,” and each demonstrates remarkable self-awareness.
Yesterday while Blake was at work, Cory and Illiana called to wish me a happy birthday. I asked what they were up to, and Cory replied that Illiana had been a huge help on a project they’d just completed. When I asked for details, I got a story that was hilariously emblematic of these two extraordinary people and their relationship. It went like this . . .
On their way home from the store, they drove past a large patio table of the sort they’d been seeking for their new abode. The table was sitting on the boulevard about a half mile from their house and had a “Free” sign taped to it. Cory stopped the car so he and Illiana could inspect the fine piece of outdoor furniture there for the taking. It had a glass top on a steel frame. He tried to fit glass and frame into his car, but this attempt proved futile. Their joint decision was to drive home, walk back to the table and carry it to the house.
At this point in the story, I glanced down at the temperature on my car dashboard. It read 84F. The atmosphere was terribly muggy.
“The glass was incredibly heavy,” said Cory. “So I carried that.”
“What about the frame?” I asked.
“Illiana dragged it along the sidewalk.”
“She what?!”
“That’s right. She dragged it along the sidewalk for about half a mile from down near Seventh all the way to Lexington Avenue, then up Lexington—you know, up the hill—all the way to our house.”
Incredulous, I burst out laughing. But after a moment, I was a believer. I could picture our li’l nine-year-old Illiana dragging a patio table over the sidewalk for the equivalent distance of two laps around a track—with the second lap up an incline, as if in a mini-steeplechase. As improbable as this seemed, I recalled our long walks during our recent visit with “Gaga” and Garrison in New York City, and how Illiana kept up with the grown-ups for however long was necessary to cover the territory from Point A to Point B to Point C to Point D—and never with any complaint. I also remembered the time last winter when she led me up the slippery bank in front of the cabin at Björnholm. With these memories recalled, it wasn’t a stretch to picture her dragging an abandoned patio table frame along 880 yards of sidewalk to its new home.
“We’re really proud of our new table, aren’t we, Illiana?” said Cory. She affirmed enthusiastically. I asked for a photo, which soon arrived.
This counted as a victory, and if I’ve learned anything as a parent of a child who struggles, it’s to ride past the pitfalls and setbacks and celebrate the victories whatever they might be and whenever they might appear. The table had become far more than a table. It was now a sturdy symbol of another solid victory. The story behind it was the finest birthday present a parent—and grandparent—could want.
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
