2026 Note:
My dad passed away 12 years ago this month. My mom passed away just last month. This story feels more important to me now than ever. It also reminds me of the picture book "The Hardest Word: A Yom Kippur Story" that I will definitely be busting out to read with my students next year. The story I share below demonstrates just how hard the words "I'm sorry" can be for some people. I only remember my dad apologizing to me two times in my life, and they were profound moments for me. He was a big, strong Marine who rarely saw the need. But I can tell you, as a parent with 2 adult children and 1 middle schooler, that practicing the art of apologizing has only strengthened my relationship with my kids and modeled this skill to them. If this is not something you are adept at as a parent, I highly recommend you start practicing.
Kristen
I don’t know about you, but I’ve found myself apologizing to my children far more often than I’d like. Whenever I feel that nudge to say “I’m sorry,” I think of a story my father used to tell me.
For years, I believed this story was about my dad and his own father. Later, I learned it was actually about a family friend. It’s funny how, as a child, the version we create in our minds can stay with us into adulthood—and even shape the way we parent.
My father and his brothers are storytellers. I’ve learned so much from them and from the stories they’ve shared. This story, in many ways, holds the essence of one of the most important lessons I’ve carried with me.
Family stories matter. They shape us and give us a sense of place and grounding in this shifting world.
Thank you, Dad, for letting me share this story—about a father who loves his child and finds a way to make right a wrong. That’s a lesson every parent eventually has to come to terms with.
I’m Sorry
By Kristen S. Sandoz
A handsome, dark-haired, deep-eyed boy ran frantically into his family’s farmhouse.
“Pa!” he cried.
His father’s looming figure darkened the kitchen doorway as his eyes scanned the boy’s muddy clothes.
“The cows were supposed to be in the barn an hour ago,” he said in a quiet sort of growl.
“But pa, I—” the boy began.
“I don’t want excuses, boy. I want obedience. Now come here.” His eyes were hard, his face foreboding, as he began to remove his belt.
“Pa, please, the —” the boy tried again.
“Now!” his father barked.
The boy knew there was no use arguing—it would only make things worse. He stepped forward and took his whipping as bravely as any seven-year-old could. Then he climbed the stairs to his room, where he would spend the rest of the evening without supper.
Through his window, he watched his father head out toward the pasture to finish the job. His job. A light rain began to fall, but no tears came. His job had been to bring in the cows—and he had failed.
trunk. He had lived a hard life, leaving home at fifteen to work on a logging crew. Even so, whipping his children was not something he took lightly—though he believed it was necessary.
With four daughters, one son, and twins on the way, there was little room for lack of discipline. On a small family farm, everyone had to carry their weight. Even a seven-year-old boy.
He stormed past the barn and headed down the hill toward the lower pasture. He could see some of the cows grazing near the creek at the bottom. Bringing them in was usually a simple job—one even a young boy could manage, when he wasn't distracted. Most days, the cows came easily, knowing a warm barn and food awaited them.
But today, they were slow and reluctant.
The father gently urged them along, walking behind them, guiding them closer together as they moved toward the creek.
That’s when he heard it—a strange, heavy panting.
He stepped to the bank and looked down.
His breath caught.
One of the cows had fallen into the creek and couldn’t get up. Her head barely stayed above the water as she lay exhausted. The muddy banks were churned and pressed down, branches nearby broken—clear signs of a desperate struggle.
If something wasn’t done quickly, she would drown.
The man scrambled down the bank, placing a steadying hand on the cow and speaking softly as he lay his hands over her body, checking for injury. When he reached her head, his heart sank.
In that instant, he understood everything.
The boy.
The mud.
The lateness.
The frantic voice.
The “back talk.”
The boy had done his job.
He had found the cow just like this and had done everything he could to help her. But her great weight was too much for a small seven-year-old boy. Somehow, the boy had known he couldn’t leave her—not even to get help—because she might not survive.
So he had made a plan.
The father saw it now.
A sturdy branch, broken cleanly from a nearby tree. A natural “Y” at the top. The end shoved deep into the mud beneath the cow’s head, lifting it just enough to keep her above the water.
Just enough for her to breathe.
Then the boy ran. This was a job for his father.
Later, the boy watched from his bedroom window as his father slowly made his way back to the house, wet and muddy.
Had he found the cow?
Had the plan worked?
He heard the farmhouse door creak open, then slam shut. His father’s low voice murmured something to his mother in the kitchen—words he couldn’t quite make out. Then came the heavy, familiar footsteps on the stairs.
The boy froze.
Something was wrong.
His father never came upstairs.
He stood still, watching the door, his dark eyes wide.
The door opened.
His father stepped inside, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he crossed the room, lifted the boy, and set him on his shoulders.
It was at least a mile into town, but the father carried his son the entire way. He stopped only once—to buy the boy an ice cream cone—before turning back toward home, the boy still perched on his shoulders.
No words were spoken.
But the boy understood.
His father had found the cow.
The plan had worked.
She was alive.
He had done his job.
And his father was proud.
More than that—this was his father’s way, quiet and strong, of saying the words he could not speak:
I’m sorry.
I wonder what family stories have shaped your life.
If you have one, I’d love to hear it. And even more—share it with the littles in your life.
Happy Tales!
Kristen
No comments:
Post a Comment