One stressful afternoon, overwhelmed by bills and deadlines, my four-year-old son, Nolan, gently tugged at my sleeve and asked, “Milkshake?” It was such a simple request, yet it pulled me out of my spiral. I paused, smiled, and said, “Let’s go.”
We went to O’Malley’s Diner — old, worn, but home to the best milkshakes. Nolan eagerly ordered his favorite cherry-vanilla, no whip. As we waited, I noticed a boy sitting alone nearby. Without a word, Nolan slid out of our booth, sat next to him, and shared his milkshake — one straw, two kids.
Moments later, the boy’s mother returned. She thanked Nolan, explaining her husband was in the hospital and they were going through a rough time. That small, quiet act of kindness turned a dusty diner into a place of connection.
Driving home, Nolan stared out the window, lost in kid dreams, unaware of the impact he’d made. That night, I realized how often I miss others’ pain, too focused on my own. Since then, every Friday, we get milkshakes — always with two straws, just in case someone else needs a little kindness too.