He is one of the most controversial figures in American history. A man who reached the summit of political power and then fell from it in the most public, most humiliating way imaginable. Richard Nixon, 37th president of the United States, the only president to ever resign. But behind all of that, behind the tapes, the scandal, the television cameras, two young women were growing up.
Two daughters who had cameras pointed at them before they were old enough to choose it, who stood by their father through victories the country celebrated and through disgrace the world watched unfold in real time. What happened to them? Who were Tricia and Julie Nixon, not as props in their father’s story, but as people? And what does it cost a person to grow up that close to that much power and then watch it collapse? That’s what we’re here to find out.
Born into politics, Tricia Nixon arrived on February 21st, 1946, in Whittier, California. Her parents were Richard and Pat Nixon, he a young attorney just returning from wartime service in the Navy, she a former school teacher who had worked as a government economist during the war. Richard was already preparing to run for Congress.
The ink on Tricia’s birth certificate was barely dry before her father was out campaigning for a seat in the House of Representatives. He won. And so from the very beginning, Tricia’s life was lived alongside ambition. Julie followed on July 5th, 1948, born in Washington, D.C., while her father was already serving as a congressman.
She came into the world in the city that would define so much of her life. By the time Julie was 2 years old, Richard Nixon had been elected to the Senate. By the time she was 4, he was vice president of the United States, serving alongside President Dwight D. Eisenhower. Two small girls one of the most prominent addresses in American political life.
Pat Nixon, their mother, was the anchor. By every account, she was the one who worked hardest to ensure that what was happening publicly stayed somewhat separate from what was happening at home. She tried, as she put it, to shield her daughters from the full force of her husband’s political career. This was not entirely possible, but the effort itself mattered.
Pat brought warmth and structure to a household that the demands of public life were always threatening to disrupt. She took them trick-or-treating on Halloween in 1958 while they were on the campaign trail in Seattle, finding costumes, arranging playmates, even securing a Secret Service escort so the girls could just be children for a night.
She made sure there were birthday cakes and family dinners and school plays attended, no matter what was happening on the political calendar. Richard, for his part, was a devoted, if sometimes distant, father. He was not by nature a warm public man. He was reserved, analytical, driven by intellect rather than easy charm.
But those who knew him privately described a different figure. Someone who could be surprisingly tender with his daughters, who cut speeches short when he noticed 8-year-old Tricia growing restless in the audience, who left notes under their doors on important mornings. There was a man behind the politician, and the daughters knew him in ways the public never did.
Tricia grew up first. She was fair-haired, quiet by nature, more comfortable in small gatherings than at the center of large ones. She attended the Horace Mann Elementary School, then Sidwell Friends School in Washington, then the Chapin School in Manhattan, following the family’s moves as her father’s career demanded.
She was not the politically expressive one. She was the one who simply carried herself with composure, who understood from early on that being Richard Nixon’s daughter meant being watched, and who adapted to that condition not by retreating, but by maintaining a certain careful dignity. When the Vice President’s family attended official events, Tricia was often the one entertaining the children of visiting dignitaries, gracious, composed, playing the role of junior ambassador without complaint. Julie was different in temperament from the very beginning. Where Tricia was reserved, Julie was curious, energetic, openly opinionated. A reporter who visited the Nixon household in 1950 was immediately met by a very small girl in cowboy boots and overalls, who introduced herself by announcing she had broken her collarbone, and seemed rather proud of the fact.
That spirit, the willingness to engage, to speak, to be in the room rather than on the edges of it, defined Julie’s personality throughout her childhood, and eventually throughout the most difficult years of her father’s presidency. Both girls attended the same schools in Washington during their father’s time as Vice President.
Julie recalled her father as being romantic and her mother as practical and down-to-earth. A framing that captures something true about what each parent contributed to the household’s emotional texture. After Richard lost the presidential election in 1960 to John F. Kennedy, the family moved back to California and then after another failed run, this time for California governor in 1962, to New York City.
The losses shaped them, too. Julie later described feeling battered by the 1960 election result, convinced the outcome had been unfair. These were not children who were shielded from the emotional realities of political life. They absorbed its wins and its losses alongside their parents. Tricia made her debut as a debutante at the prestigious International Debutante Ball at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York City in 1964.
Her escort that evening was a young man named Edward Finch Cox, a freshman at Princeton University. She went on to attend Finch College in Manhattan and later Boston College, graduating with a Bachelor of Arts in English in 1968, with her father delivering the commencement address. The fact that Richard Nixon, then a private citizen, running hard toward his second presidential campaign, took time from that campaign to stand at his daughter’s graduation and speak, tells you something about what family meant to him even at the height of his political ambitions. Julie enrolled at Smith College, where she would cross paths again with someone whose name was already woven into the fabric of American history. And what happened next for both sisters would be as different as their personalities. One woman stepping gradually out of the
spotlight, the other stepping directly into it. But before any of that could happen, both sisters would first have to navigate the extraordinary fact of what their father was about to become. Because in November 1968, Richard Nixon won the presidency. And the family that had lived through so many campaigns, so many defeats, so many attempts and setbacks, they were going to the White House.
All of them. And nothing about what came next would be simple or expected or easy. The royal connection. Julie and David. The story of Julie Nixon and David Eisenhower begins in 1966 at a political event in Massachusetts, the Hadley Republican Women’s Club, where both of them had been invited to speak.
Julie was at Smith College. David Eisenhower, the grandson of President Dwight D. Eisenhower, was at nearby Amherst College. They had known of each other for years in the way that children of famous families always know of each other. But that evening in Hadley was the beginning of something real. In 1966, Julie appeared at the International Debutante Ball in New York escorted by David.
The image of them together that evening, the daughter of a former vice president and the grandson of a former president, captured something the American public found genuinely enchanting. Two dynasties, two remarkable families, two young people finding their way to each other in the most American of settings.
Commentators took notice. The symmetry of it was too striking to ignore. One presidential family passing something, a kind of American continuity to another. They were engaged in 1967 and married on December 22nd, 1968 at Marble Collegiate Church in New York City. The date is significant. Julie’s father had won the presidential election just 6 weeks earlier.
Richard Nixon was the president-elect of the United States when his younger daughter walked down the aisle. The wedding was not at the White House. They had not yet moved in. But the country was already beginning to understand what kind of family would be living there. It is worth pausing on the unusual position this marriage created.
Julie Nixon was now simultaneously the daughter of the incoming president of the United States and the granddaughter-in-law of one of the most beloved presidents of the previous generation. David Eisenhower carried one of the most resonant surnames in 20th century American life. Together, they were a walking symbol of Republican continuity and American institutional memory at a moment when the country desperately needed some sense of continuity.
They were young. Julie was 20, David 21, and they were being asked to carry an enormous amount of symbolic weight simply by existing. What made Julie Nixon Eisenhower exceptional was not simply the circumstances of her life. It was what she chose to do with them. During her father’s presidency, she worked as an assistant editor at the Saturday Evening Post in Philadelphia.
She gave tours to disabled children at the White House. She filled in for her mother at official events when Pat’s schedule was demanding. She developed a genuine and active interest in foreign policy, in children’s welfare, in the functioning of the government she was now living alongside. She was not ornamental.
She had substance. In 1971, when David was assigned to a Navy posting in Florida and they moved to Atlantic Beach, she was hired to teach third grade at the local elementary school. Though she had to give up the position before classes started after breaking her toe. Even the setbacks were revealing. This was someone who wanted to work, who was actively looking for ways to contribute, who did not rest comfortably on the fact of her father’s name.
And then came the Saturday in May 1973 when everything changed. The Watergate scandal had been building for months by that point. The break-in at the Democratic National Committee headquarters at the Watergate complex had happened in June 1972. Investigations, revelations, Senate hearings, the machinery of accountability was grinding forward, and it was grinding directly toward the Oval Office.
Richard Nixon’s presidency was in genuine peril. His poll numbers were dropping. His allies were deserting. His staff were pleading guilty or pointing fingers at each other in congressional testimony. On May 2nd, 1973, Julie Nixon Eisenhower stood before cameras and gave interviews. She was 24 years old.
She was defending her father. This was the beginning of what would become 138 separate interviews she would give across the country in the months that followed. She drove the defense of Richard Nixon as no official spokesperson, no White House press secretary, no political operative could have because she was his daughter.
Because when she spoke about believing in him, it carried a weight that no hired voice could replicate. She traveled the country. She met the press. She faced hostile questions and answered them. On July 4th, 1973, she told reporters that her father had considered resigning over Watergate and that the family had talked him out of it.
That statement, made on Independence Day, was remarkable in its candor and in what it revealed about what was actually happening behind those White House walls. The family had sat together and made a decision. Julie had been part of it. She was 24 years old and she was helping to decide whether a president would resign.
On May 7th, 1974, Julie and David stood before the cameras in the East Garden of the White House. She announced that her father planned to fight the impeachment process all the way to the constitutional end. The mood in that garden was tense. The questions pointed. The situation in Washington desperate.
Just before noon on August 9th, 1974, Julie stood behind her father while he gave his farewell speech to the White House staff. She would later tell Barbara Walters in a 1986 interview that that moment had been the hardest for him. That for one of the few times in public, he had truly let his guard down.
She stood still and watched and held herself together because someone in that room had to. For all of her public presence during those years, Julie was also named one of the 10 most admired women in America during the Nixon presidency. A recognition that went beyond her family connection and acknowledged something genuine in her public conduct.
She was respected not just as the president’s daughter, but as a person in her own right. That distinction mattered to her, and it was earned. The Rose Garden Wedding. While Julie was carrying the public weight of the Watergate years, Tricia was navigating a very different kind of moment in the White House.
One that would become one of the most photographed events of her father’s entire presidency. Tricia Nixon and Edward Cox had been a couple since that debutante ball in 1964. By the time her father was in the White House, the relationship was long established and serious. They announced their engagement in March 1971, and set the date for that summer.
Tricia had one specific wish for the wedding. She wanted it to be in the Rose Garden. The idea of an outdoor White House wedding was not without complications. FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover expressed security concerns. Weather was an obvious variable. An outdoor ceremony at the president’s residence required contingency planning, and a bad weather plan for the East Room was indeed prepared and kept ready.
An outdoor ceremony at the White House also required logistical coordination on a scale that would be extraordinary under any circumstances, let alone during a presidency already dealing with the ongoing war in Vietnam and the social upheavals of the early 1970s. But Tricia got her Rose Garden. On June 12th, 1971, she married Edward Finch Cox in the first outdoor wedding ceremony ever held at the White House.
The morning had been overcast and rainy. Staff had kept both plans fully ready and the decision on venue was made only as the afternoon weather cleared. At just after 4:30, with blue skies and 400 guests in attendance, the wedding procession began. Her gown was designed by Priscilla Kidder of the celebrated firm Priscilla of Boston.
Silk organdy, lace, silk crepe with embroidered lilies and a trumpeted court train. Priscilla Kidder said publicly that her intention had been to make the bride look like a princess and the photographs suggest she succeeded. Julie served as matron of honor and lent her sister a pair of diamond and pearl earrings as her something borrowed.
Life magazine put Tricia on the cover. The event was described by some as the closest thing America had to a royal wedding. Press tents on the South Lawn captured the ceremony for a nation that very much needed something beautiful to watch. A gazebo had been built specially for the ceremony, which was conducted by Reverend Edward Latch.
The Rose Garden was dotted with roses in reds, pinks, whites, and yellows. The crab apple trees overhead matched the shade of the bridesmaids’ silk organdy dresses. And at the reception that followed in the East Room and State Dining Room, the focal point was an old-fashioned lemon pound cake made from a recipe Tricia had found in her mother’s recipe box.
Even the wedding cake was personal, chosen, rooted in the family’s own kitchen history. President Nixon walked his eldest daughter down the aisle. That morning, before the ceremony, he had slipped a handwritten note under her door. He wrote that today was the day she would begin a long and exciting journey and that she had made the right choice.
For one afternoon, the White House was not a place of political crisis. It was simply the home where a father walked his daughter through a garden to give her away. The Vietnam War was ongoing. Protests were constant. The country was deeply divided. And the Watergate scandal, though its full weight would not be felt for another year, was already beginning to take shape.
The Rose Garden wedding existed in the middle of all of that. It was, in its own way, a kind of defiance. A moment of normalcy and beauty claimed deliberately from a time that offered very little of either. Tricia and Edward settled into private life after the wedding. They would have a son, Christopher Nixon Cox, born in March 1979.
Tricia stepped away from public life almost entirely. Not to disappear, but to make a deliberate choice about how she wanted to live. And while she chose that quiet, the family crisis that had been building for 2 years was about to reach its absolute peak. The farewell and what came after. On August 8th, 1974, Richard Nixon appeared on national television from the Oval Office and announced that he would resign the presidency effective the following noon.
He was the first and remains the only president in American history to have done so. He spoke for 16 minutes. He talked about the nation, about the need for a healing, about the long and difficult period of Watergate that he had now acknowledged could not continue. He did not fully admit wrongdoing.
He said he no longer had enough political support in Congress to govern. He said it was time to go. And then he said, “Good night.” And the cameras went dark. The following morning, August 9th, 1974, was something different entirely. It was the farewell. Nixon stood in the East Room of the White House and addressed the cabinet, the staff, the family that had gathered around him.
Both daughters were there. Tricia stood behind him as he spoke. Julie stood nearby, alongside her husband, David. They had all been up through much of the night. Julie would later describe the farewell speech as the hardest moment she had witnessed. Her father finally letting down the guard he had spent decades maintaining, speaking not from a prepared text, but from somewhere much more exposed.
He talked about his mother, his father, the humble origins in Orange County that seemed so far from this room, this day, this weight. His voice cracked. At one point, he read from the diary of Theodore Roosevelt, a passage about a young lawyer who had lost his wife on the same day he lost their newborn daughter, and about the light going out of his life forever.
Nixon could barely get through it. Those around him in the room wept openly. David Eisenhower, standing there with the daughters, later described the moment as one when he genuinely feared his father-in-law was about to break down completely in front of the television cameras. The audience in the East Room wept.
Those standing on the platform with him, Julie, Tricia, David, Pat, stood still and held themselves together. One detail shared afterward captures everything. Tricia wrote in her diary that for the first time she felt that people had been able to see her father as he actually was, not the political figure, not the embattled president, just the man.
Then the family walked out of the White House and boarded a helicopter on the South Lawn. Nixon raised his hand as he turned at the helicopter door. Whether it was a wave or a salute, he later said he wasn’t sure. Pat had already boarded. He followed her in. The helicopter lifted. They flew to Andrews Air Force Base, boarded the presidential plane, still called the Spirit of ’76, and flew to San Clemente, California, where the family would settle into their estate, La Casa Pacifica, and try to figure out what life after the White House actually looked like. It would not be easy. And it would not be quick. The years in San Clemente were quiet and in many ways painful. Nixon himself descended into a deep depression in the months after the resignation.
He had been pardoned by his successor, Gerald Ford, in September 1974, which meant he would face no criminal prosecution. But the pardon had done nothing to restore what had been lost. The reputation, the legacy, the sense of purpose that comes with holding the most powerful office in the world. He spent months in what contemporaries described as a state of profound disorientation, rarely venturing out, barely engaging with the world.
Pat Nixon, who had endured the Watergate years with a composed public dignity that concealed private devastation, suffered a stroke in July 1976, less than 2 years after leaving Washington. The stroke paralyzed her left side. Physical therapy restored her movement, but the experience accelerated her withdrawal from public life.
She made almost no solo public appearances in California in the years that followed. The woman who had once been the most traveled first lady in American history, who had walked through Beijing in her red coat during the historic 1972 visit to China, who had been designated as a personal representative of the United States on solo diplomatic trips to Africa and South America, was living very quietly in a house by the Pacific Ocean, mostly out of sight.
Both daughters remained present. They visited. They wrote. They called. They were part of what gradually, year by year, became a kind of rebuilding. Julie, in particular, stayed engaged with her parents’ public legacy in ways that Tricia largely left to her. In 1977, after David Eisenhower was released from Navy service, they settled in Berwyn, Pennsylvania, and Julie began writing.
The result was Pat Nixon, the untold story, a biography of her mother that became a New York Times bestseller. It was not simply a tribute. It was a serious work of research and reflection that tried to restore the full human being behind the carefully composed public figure. Julie understood that her mother’s story had been buried under her husband’s, and she was determined to dig it back out and give it the full accounting it deserved.
Richard and Pat eventually moved from California to Park Ridge, New Jersey, and later, Nixon bought a townhouse in Manhattan. Life went on. Nixon wrote memoirs. He gave the famous 1977 interviews to British journalist David Frost, in which he made partial concessions about his conduct, while also defending his legacy in characteristically complex terms.
He rebuilt a public presence slowly and deliberately over the years that followed the resignation. He traveled internationally. He was consulted by subsequent presidents on foreign policy matters, particularly regarding Russia and China, where his experience was genuine and deep, and his daughters were part of all of it, supporting, appearing alongside him, always conscious of how the world would see whatever they did, always aware that the Nixon name required a kind of active stewardship, loss, legacy, and the long aftermath. Pat Nixon was diagnosed with lung cancer in 1992. She died on June 22nd, 1993, at her home in Park Ridge, New Jersey. She was 81 years old. Both daughters were with her, along with Richard Nixon. Four days later, they stood at her funeral service on the grounds of the
Richard Nixon Library in Yorba Linda, California, the city where Richard Nixon had been born, the place they had chosen as the permanent home of his presidential papers and the final resting place of both of them, and said goodbye to the woman who had been the heart of their family. Pat Nixon’s death was a quiet public event in comparison to the enormous spectacle of the years before it.
She had spent her post-White House life largely out of view, giving almost no interviews, making almost no appearances. The world had moved on to other dramas. But for Tricia and Julie, the loss was absolute. The mother who had taken them trick-or-treating in hotel corridors on campaign stops, who had tried so hard to give them a normal childhood inside an abnormal life, who had stood beside their father through everything and said, “I love my husband.
I believe in him.” She was gone. 10 months later, Richard Nixon died. He had suffered a severe stroke on April 18th, 1994, and never recovered consciousness. He died on April 22nd, 1994, at the age of 81. Both daughters were at his bedside when he passed. They had been there with him through everything. The vice presidency, the presidential campaigns, the White House, the resignation, the exile in California, the slow rebuilding, the death of their mother, and they were there at the end.
The funeral was held on April 27th, 1994, at the Nixon Library in Yorba Linda. Every living former president attended. Gerald Ford, Jimmy Carter, George H. W. Bush, and Bill Clinton, who was the sitting president. The country paused to consider the life of a man whose legacy remained profoundly complicated.
A president who had opened diplomatic relations with China and pursued arms reduction agreements with the Soviet Union, who had signed significant environmental legislation creating the Environmental Protection Agency, who had worked to end American military involvement in Vietnam, and who had also overseen and then attempted to conceal one of the greatest abuses of power in the history of the American presidency.
The Nixon legacy was not simple. It never had been. And both daughters knew that better than anyone. For Tricia and Julie, their parents’ deaths closed a chapter, but did not end the story. They remained active stewards of the Nixon legacy, attending library events, participating in foundation activities, occasionally making public statements when the narrative they had grown up inside was portrayed in ways they found distorted or unfair.
Oliver Stone’s 1995 film Nixon generated responses from both women. Walt Disney’s daughter, Diane Disney Miller, wrote to both of them in solidarity, stating that Stone had done a grave disservice to their family, the presidency, and American history. The daughters did not remain quiet about it. Julie took her advocacy a step further.
She worked for years to have the Nixon library accepted into the National Archives administered system of presidential libraries, a designation held by every other presidential library, and one that would give historians more structured access to Nixon materials. It was a fight that mattered to her deeply because she believed that as long as her father’s library stood outside that system, historians would continue to evaluate him more harshly than the record warranted.
The library was formally incorporated into the National Archives system in 2007, a moment that represented a long-sought institutional recognition. What came after the deaths, after the legal dispute over the Rebozo estate, after all of that, was the long quiet present, the life both women built in the shadow of history without letting the shadow consume them.
Tricia continued to live privately in New York. She and Edward, who became a prominent corporate attorney and eventually chairman of the New York Republican State Committee, built a life on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Their son, Christopher, studied at Princeton and became a lawyer. Tricia served on medical research boards and on the board of the Richard Nixon Foundation.
When public statements were needed defending her father’s legacy, responding to film or television portrayals she found unfair, she issued them. But the daily life was private and that was the deliberate choice. Julie remained the more public of the two. She sat on the board of the Richard Nixon Foundation and worked actively on questions of how her father’s presidency should be remembered by historians.
She served for years on the board of an organization called Jobs for America’s Graduates, which helped at-risk young people finish high school and find work. From 2002 to 2006, she chaired the President’s Commission on White House Fellowships, a program for emerging leaders in public service. She was named a distinguished daughter of Pennsylvania for her decades of community service.
She and David, living in Berwyn, raised three children, daughters Jennie and Melanie, and a son, Alex. And then, in the early 2000s, something unexpected happened between the two sisters, a legal dispute. Bebe Rebozo, a long-time close friend and confidant of Richard Nixon, one of the few people who had remained steadfastly loyal through the worst years and beyond, had died and left an estimated fortune, potentially as high as 19 million dollars designated for the Richard Nixon Library and Birthplace Foundation. What should happen to that money became a matter of sharp disagreement between the two daughters. Tricia wanted the money managed by a group affiliated with the Nixon family with family oversight over how it was used and directed. Julie wanted the money controlled by the library’s independent board
the way most presidential library foundations operate so that decisions about the funds would not rest exclusively in the hands of the immediate family. It was at its core a disagreement about control and trust and stewardship. And it was also beneath the legal surface a genuine question about what it means to protect a legacy.
Both women cared deeply about the Nixon name. They had spent their adult lives defending it, building it, showing up for it. They simply reached different conclusions about how it should be protected going forward. The dispute went to litigation. The sisters who had stood side by side behind their father in the East Room as he wept his farewell were now on opposite sides of a legal argument about what he had left behind.
Julie, in speaking about it publicly, said it was very sad and very heartbreaking because she loved her sister very much. The lawsuit was eventually settled to the satisfaction of both parties. The legal battle ended. The relationship endured. But the episode was a reminder that even the closest families forged through the most extraordinary shared experiences, shaped by decades of public crisis and private loyalty can find genuine conflict when the things they are protecting feel large enough. The Nixon daughters had shared everything. The childhood under constant scrutiny, the White House years, the resignation day, the parents’ deaths. What they had not always shared, it turned out, was a single vision of how to carry forward what those parents had left behind. That difference was real
and human and completely understandable, which is exactly what made it sad. Who they are. The story of Tricia and Julie Nixon is not simply a story about what it costs to be a president’s child, though it costs a great deal. It is also a story about two women who grew up facing the same extraordinary pressures and chose completely different ways to handle them.
Tricia chose composure and withdrawal. She made her moment in the White House, the Rose Garden wedding, the ceremonial events, the careful public presence. And then she stepped back from public life with what appears to be genuine purpose rather than defeat. She built a private life in New York. She raised her son.
She did her board work and issued her statements when she felt they were needed. She did not write memoirs or give extensive interviews or seek the platform that her famous name would have afforded her. There was real discipline in that choice. It requires something to carry a name the whole world knows and simply decline to trade on it.
Tricia Nixon Cox has spent her adult life doing exactly that. Julie chose engagement. She wrote about her mother when her mother was gone and the world had not fully understood her. She advocated for her father’s place in history with the directness that had always defined her. She campaigned, appeared, served on commissions, raised three children, and continued well into her adult life to be the member of the Nixon family most willing to step into the public arena and make an argument.
She had done it at 24, traveling the country giving interviews in defense of her father during the worst months of Watergate, and she never fully stopped. She inherited her mother’s practical groundedness and her father’s willingness to press forward even when the odds were difficult. Between them, they have carried the Nixon name with more dignity than anyone had any right to expect in the years after August 9th, 1974.
What they inherited was not a simple thing. It was a name permanently associated with one of the greatest scandals in American political history, a name that could, in certain company and in certain years, generate contempt and derision. They could not change that. They could only decide what to do with it.
What they did was to keep working, keep showing up, keep making the case, each in her own way, that the full story was more complicated than the headline. That the man who resigned in disgrace was also the man who slipped a note under a door on his daughter’s wedding morning, who wept in the East Room because he could not hold himself together any longer, who called himself a saint’s son, and who had loved two girls from the moment they arrived in Whittier and Washington, D.C.
, and who had given them, along with all the difficulty, a genuine and lasting love. The children of presidents do not choose the circumstances they are born into. They do not choose the history that will attach to their names. What they choose is what they do inside of it. And Tricia and Julie Nixon, by any fair accounting, made something meaningful out of what was given to them.
Something that neither the Rose Garden photographs nor the Watergate tapes can fully contain. They were daughters first before they were anyone’s political symbols. And they carried the whole weight of that for the whole length of their lives without putting it down. The story of Richard Nixon’s two daughters is ultimately a story about how families survive catastrophe.
Not perfectly, not without cost, not without the occasional legal dispute over a dead friend’s estate, but they survive. They show up. They stand behind the man on the hardest morning of his life and they do not look away. If you enjoyed this video, please like and subscribe to our channel so you never miss out on more fascinating stories.
