It’s one thing to visit the Empire State Building when you’re young and unattached—camera slung over your shoulder, heart full of ambition, eyes wide with the rush of being in New York. It’s another thing entirely to walk through those same revolving doors twenty or thirty years later, a little slower in the knees, holding the hands of two tiny daughters while your wife smiles knowingly at your side.
This wasn’t my first visit to the Empire State Building. But it was the first time I’d gone to catch the sunset with my wife and two girls—one freshly two, the other fiercely four—and that made it something altogether new.
When you’re fifty, you look at the world differently. You don’t just see the skyline—you see time. You see how fast it’s all gone. And you realize just how fleeting a sunset is, how golden the light can be, and how lucky you are to be standing still for a minute with the people you love most.
The Build-Up to the Top
We’d been in New York for a couple of days. The usual rhythm of city travel with small children had taken hold: early mornings, frequent snack breaks, occasional mood swings (some from the kids, some from me), and a growing collection of half-eaten pastries. But this outing had a special place on the itinerary. We weren’t just sightseeing—we were timing our visit to hit the golden hour, right when the city glows and everything feels just a little more cinematic.
No stroller this time. The girls are at that magical in-between stage—small enough to want to be carried at inconvenient times, but big enough to insist on walking until they’re halfway up a staircase and realize they’ve made a terrible mistake. So we took our chances, packed light, and made the short walk from our Midtown hotel to the Empire State Building.
The building revealed itself slowly as we turned onto 5th Avenue—still a marvel, still iconic, even after all these years. Its spire pierced the sky, glowing faintly in the early evening light. I caught my breath without realizing it. My wife caught my expression and gave me a knowing smile. This city never stops being impressive. But sharing it with your children? That’s something else entirely.
Through the Doors and Into History
Inside, the lobby was the same elegant swirl of marble, brass, and grandeur I remembered—but it’s been thoughtfully updated. The experience now weaves in exhibits and multimedia that somehow manage to be modern without losing the building’s 1930s soul.
The girls were enchanted by the lights, the sounds, and the giant screens. The historical construction footage? Slightly less interesting to a toddler than the moving floor display showing New York from above. But for me, it was a time machine. I imagined the laborers who built it, the architects who dreamed it up, and the many visitors who came before us.
It’s funny how you don’t appreciate the effort behind something monumental until you’ve spent a few decades putting in effort of your own—at work, in life, in parenting. I thought of all the things that have changed since I was last here: jobs, apartments, people, priorities. But now, walking beside my wife, with a daughter’s hand in each of ours, it felt like the pieces had landed exactly where they were supposed to.
The Ascent
The elevator ride to the 86th floor was smoother and faster than I remembered. The girls’ eyes widened as the floor numbers ticked upward, and I could feel their excitement build with each ding.
There’s a particular kind of silence that happens in elevators like that—brief, anticipatory, everyone tucked into their own thoughts, or holding in a joke. For us, it was a quiet moment amid the din of the day. I looked at my wife, and for a few seconds, we were just two people sharing a moment between the hustle of parenting and the romance of New York.
Then the doors opened, and everything changed.
Sunset on the 86th
Stepping out onto the 86th-floor open-air observation deck at sunset is like walking into a painting that’s still being made. The air hits you first—cooler, a little thinner, and laced with wind that hasn’t touched the streets below. And then the view: endless buildings bathed in gold, the Hudson glowing like molten glass, and the tiny blinking lights of the city just beginning to twinkle awake.
The girls were completely absorbed. The older one gripped the fence and tried to spot taxis. The younger one pointed at the rooftops and asked if we were in a rocket ship. I hoisted her up in my arms so she could see better, and she gasped—not dramatically, not for show, just genuinely. It was one of those small, perfect sounds that parents collect like treasure.
My wife leaned on the railing next to me, soaking in the moment. I’ve seen her in a thousand different places, from coffee-stained mornings to tearful goodbyes to triumphs big and small—but something about that light, the breeze in her hair, and the calm on her face hit me in the chest.
We stood there, quietly narrating the city to the girls. “That’s the river,” I said, pointing west. “Those lights over there are Times Square. And if you squint, way out there—that’s probably New Jersey.” My four-year-old asked if the buildings ever went to sleep. I said no, not here.
The sun dipped slowly, casting longer and longer shadows. The city changed color in front of our eyes—orange, then lavender, then blue-gray. We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to.
Heading Back Down
Eventually, as all parents know, magic has an expiration date. The kids got cold. Someone had to go to the bathroom. There were murmurs of hunger, and the bedtime clock was starting to tick.
We took a few last photos—squinty, windblown, imperfect. But I know that years from now, when I look at them, I’ll remember exactly how I felt: full, grateful, stunned by the passage of time, and so deeply aware that these little people won’t always be small enough to carry.
The descent was uneventful but still held a kind of gentle awe. Back down to earth, back into the world of taxis and honking and overstimulated toddlers who suddenly remembered that ice cream exists.
We made it outside just as the building turned on its evening lights. The girls gasped again. So did I.
The Walk Home
We didn’t rush. The walk back to our hotel was slow, sticky-handed, and full of questions—about how tall the building really is, whether clouds ever touch the antenna, and if we could go up again tomorrow. I said, “Maybe someday.”
I glanced back over my shoulder one last time. The Empire State Building was glowing like a beacon. I don’t know what I expected, but I felt a surprising lump in my throat.
It’s not just a building. It’s a symbol. And now, it’s a memory.
Looking Back
That night, after the girls were tucked into their beds and the apartment fell into that rare and beautiful silence known only to parents after 8 p.m., my wife and I sat on the couch and scrolled through the photos on my phone.
“Not bad,” I said, holding up one where the sunset had turned the skyline to fire and my youngest had her mouth wide open in mid-laugh.
“Perfect,” she said, simply.
And it was.
When I visited the Empire State Building in my twenties, it felt like I was chasing something—ambition, freedom, the rush of being part of the city. At fifty, it felt like I was holding something. Something more precious.
We won’t remember every detail. The kids may not remember it at all. But I will. I’ll remember the golden light, the awe in their faces, the wind at our backs. I’ll remember how my wife looked out over the city and smiled.
And I’ll remember that, for one perfect New York minute, we stood at the top of the world together.
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