“The mozzarella sticks were that good—you wanted more?” he asked, setting the plate down on the table. He was one of the cooks at the small diner where we were eating, stepping in to help while the lone waitress rushed between too many tables.
I smiled softly and nodded. I didn’t have much more to offer than that, but I appreciated the gentle, kind energy he met me with. When our eyes met, it felt as though he could see straight into my heart, all the way through my soul. The moment lingered longer than expected, but I didn’t have the energy to question it. I had nothing left to give.
The day had been spent holding space for enormous emotions—my own and my children’s—on a wildly difficult day.
A few minutes later, he returned and placed a glass of red wine in front of me.
“You’re doing a great job,” he said quietly, already turning back toward the kitchen.
“Thank you,” I replied, confused and surprised by the unexpected gift.
“I was raised by a single mom,” he added, turning back to face me. “There were three of us boys.”
My smile held as tears filled my eyes.
He nodded once, then walked back into the kitchen. I never saw him again.
I sat there, staring at the glass of wine. For a moment, I wondered if I looked as exhausted as I felt—though I already knew the answer. I looked drained. I was drained.
I had taken my boys out to dinner not to escape the depth of what we had been processing all day, but to shift the frequency—to breathe in something different.
I don’t know that I have ever loved a stranger the way I loved him that night. He knew nothing about me. Nothing about our story or what our family had just endured. He was simply a human moving through the world from a place of compassion and empathy.
He didn’t need to know my story. He didn’t need to hear about my day. He only needed to sense that I was open to receiving kindness.
And I will forever be grateful that he did.