It was a tossed-off comment from a friend, a casual remark, but the words were unbelievably harsh.

“My father thinks I’m a failure,” he said.

This young man is anything but a failure. He’s artistic and witty, but no matter what I or anyone else says, the words of his father pierced his heart, a wound that will never mend.

Most of us compliment our children after a triumphant sporting event, a school play where they’re the star or when they bring home an ace report card.

What about the times when our child isn’t the star of the football team or the lead in the school musical?

Worse, what happens as we watch our friends’ children torpedoing up the ladder of success while our children seem to sit on the same rung day after day.

Often that frustration is a reminder of how we were as youngsters, and we feel the hurt all over again but with much more anguish when our children are involved.

But instead of being the wind beneath their wings, we’re sometimes gale-force winds, destroying our relationship with our children and blowing away their confidence.

Looking back, there were times when I said the right thing at the right time to my boys. They’d be angry or confused, and our subsequent conversations seemed to help.

I believed I was an involved parent – I read them bedtime stories, tucked them in at night and was on the front row for all their events, from kindergarten plays to sports to graduations.

I thought I was providing a good example by some of the things I did and, shamefully, an example of what not to do.

One evening, after the boys were grown and living on their own, I found myself on our back porch, listening to the quiet, watching the sun go down. I thought about all the good times we’d had together and, then reluctantly, all the tough times.

The arguments. The disagreements. The times I didn’t listen. The times they didn’t listen. And I longed to pull my boys back in time, hold them close and tell them I was sorry for my mistakes and shortcomings.

So I called one of my sons and apologized for all the missed opportunities and missteps I’d made as his mother. His answer surprised me.

“I don’t remember anything you did wrong,” he said softly. “And I think I turned out okay. So don’t worry about it anymore, Mom. I’m just fine.”

And with that short conversation, I realized that even when the sins of omission are great, even on the days when we feel we haven’t an ounce of patience left, our children forgive us and accept us for the flawed human beings we are.

Thank God.

Thinking about that conversation with my son, I told this broken-hearted young man the best way to prove his father wrong was to continue growing into a strong man, one capable of loving his children without reservation or judgment.

He’d come to understand that, over the long parenting road, sometimes he’ll be right and sometimes he’ll be wrong.

We all are.

I won’t win any parenting prizes, nor will my boys send me mushy Mother’s Day cards. But I can watch them as they continue to grow into wonderful men, capable of great love and genuine forgiveness.

And, in the grand scheme of life, that’s a whole lot better than a gold-plated mother-of-the-year trophy.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.