The metal handle squeaked slightly as it swung open, and the wind carried the soft click of the door behind him. I watched my youngest son hold it for a stranger, no fanfare, no glance back to see if I was watching. He just did it, naturally and easily, like kindness had settled into his bones.

In that small, quiet act, I was reminded of something I’ve come to believe with my whole heart: your child is a reflection of you.

Most of ours are grown now. They’ve stepped into the world with their own keys and calendars, their own burdens and blessings. But traces of home still follow them. How we spoke to them, how we loved them, how we showed up on the hard days. Those things never stay behind.

None of my children are perfect. I’m not perfect. My husband isn’t perfect. But we’ve never claimed to be. What we have done, though, is try. We’ve done our best to model the kind of character we hoped to see in them. We taught them the importance of integrity, accountability, honesty, and authenticity. We tried to live out empathy, both on the hard days and the good ones. When we made mistakes, we owned them. When we felt joy, we shared it. When we were wrong, we said so out loud.

Because the truth is, children are watching even when we think they’re not. They see how we treat the waitress when the service is slow. They hear how we speak when we’re frustrated in traffic. They notice if we return the grocery cart to the corral or leave it propped between two bumpers on a windy day.

It’s not about the cart. It’s about what it says:

That respect isn’t situational. That responsibility doesn’t require an audience. That doing the right thing, especially when no one is looking, matters.

If we can’t be trusted with the small things, we’ll never be trusted with the big ones.

And our children are always taking note.

They’re learning that kindness isn’t just a grand gesture. Sometimes it’s holding the door. Saying thank you. Picking up a piece of trash that isn’t yours. Letting someone go first. Sometimes it’s silence when you want to lash out, and forgiveness when it’s not easy.

They’re learning how we carry stress, how we admit when we’re wrong, how we handle grief or injustice or disappointment. They’re learning how we pray, how we rest, and whether we make room for joy in the middle of exhaustion.

Some days, we got it right. Other days, we had to circle back and try again. But even that is part of the reflection: showing them that growth is holy, and humility is strength.

And now, with just one still under our roof, I feel the weight and the wonder of this sacred work. The window is still open. The imprint is still being made. And every ordinary moment holds the potential to become part of who he will be.

So I keep trying to be the kind of person I hope he becomes:

Kind. Honest. Humble. Resilient. Not perfect, but present.

Because he’s watching.

And one day, when he steps into the world on his own, I pray the reflection he carries is made up of the very best of what we tried to live.

These moments, the small and steady ones, become the inheritance we leave behind.