Retirement Speech for a Parent: What to Say, With 4 Examples

For a dad, from a son (about 2 minutes)

Hi, everybody. I'm Toby, the middle kid, the one who once tried to fix a lamp with a butter knife.

Dad was an electrician for thirty-four years, and you all know what kind. Careful. Slow when it mattered. The one they sent when somebody else's work had to be redone. What you might not know is that he couldn't turn it off at home. Every light switch in our house has a label on it. Hall. Porch. Garbage disposal, do not touch. When I was seven he labeled the switch in my bedroom with my name, which I took personally at the time and now think is one of the kindest things anyone has done for me.

He also worked a lot of weekends. He missed some of my games and most of my sister's recitals, and he never once made an excuse about it. He'd come home still in the boots and ask for the score, and he wanted every inning. I didn't understand until I had a job of my own that he was asking because he was sorry.

Dad, Mom says you've got a list. The boat, the porch rail, the cabinet in the garage that's been half-built since I was in high school. I hope you get to all of it. I hope you get to none of it, if that's what you'd rather.

So, everybody, please raise a glass. To my dad. Every switch labeled, every inning accounted for.

Why it works: one household habit explains the whole career, and the line about what he missed is light enough to land without guilt.

For a mom, from a daughter (about 2 minutes)

Hi, everyone. I'm Trudy. I'm the daughter, and I've been told I have two minutes, so I'm going to talk fast, which I get from my mother.

For twenty-eight years Mom was a court reporter. She sat at the front of a courtroom and took down every word anyone said, at a speed I still don't believe. Here's what that looked like at home. If you talked at our dinner table, her fingers moved. On the tablecloth, on her napkin, on her knee. She didn't know she was doing it. My brother and I figured out pretty young that if we said something we'd regret, it was already in the record.

Some weeks she worked trials that ran late, and dinner was cereal and a note on the fridge. I'm not going to pretend that was nothing. But here's what we got. We got a mom who heard every word. When I called her from college, she could quote back what I'd said three weeks before. It was terrifying, and it was also the most listened to I have ever felt.

Mom, you told me last month you want to take a pottery class and stop answering the phone before ten. I think that's the best plan I've heard all year.

So please raise your glasses. To my mom. For once, nobody's taking it down.

Why it works: a physical habit the whole family recognizes, one honest sentence about the cost, and a last line that finally gives her the night off.

For both parents retiring together (about 2 and a half minutes)

Good evening. I'm Wade, and I grew up in the back room of the flower shop on the corner, which is where most of you met me, usually doing homework between the buckets of carnations.

Mom and Dad bought that shop when I was four. For the next thirty-one years, Mom did the arrangements and Dad drove the van, and between them they knew about every wedding, funeral, prom, and apology in this town. Mom could tell who was in trouble at home from the size of the order. Dad knew every back door in the county.

Here's the part the customers never saw. Every year, on the second Sunday in May, the busiest day the shop had, my mom was at work by four in the morning making sure everybody else's mother got flowers. So in our house, we celebrated her the Tuesday after. My sister and I made pancakes, Dad brought home whatever didn't sell, and it was the best day of the year. I was in college before I found out it was on Sunday for everyone else. I used to mind that. Now I think we got the better deal.

The new owners take over Monday. Dad says he's going to sleep until seven. Mom says she's going to walk past the shop and not go in. I give that one about a week.

So raise your glasses, please. To Mom and Dad. This year, it's on Sunday.

Why it works: the shop belongs to both of them, so neither parent gets the bigger half, and the moved holiday is something no customer ever knew about.

For a stepparent, from a stepdaughter (about 2 and a half minutes)

Hi, everyone. I'm Malia. Vern married my mom when I was thirteen, which, if you remember being thirteen, means I made it extremely hard for him.

Vern drove a truck for twenty-six years. Long haul, gone five or six days at a time. When he first moved in, I figured that was fine. Less time to deal with him. Then he started calling. Every night at nine, from wherever he was. A truck stop outside some town I'd never heard of. A rest area in the rain. He'd ask Mom about her day, and then he'd ask for me. I said no for about two months. He kept asking. Every night at nine.

Eventually I picked up, mostly so he'd stop. He asked what I'd had for dinner. That was the whole first conversation. Then it was the next night, and the next. By high school I was the one sitting by the phone at five to nine, and I'd never have admitted it.

Vern, you missed a lot of dinners on the road. You never missed nine o'clock. I don't think you know how much that mattered to a kid who wasn't sure she wanted you around. Now you get to eat dinner at the table every night, with Mom, and I hope it's a long run of boring, happy ones.

Glasses up, everybody. To Vern. I'll call you at nine.

Why it works: it says plainly how the relationship started, then lets one steady habit do the work of explaining what changed.