It happened on an ordinary Friday afternoon. We were driving home, sipping milkshakes and talking about everything and nothing, when my son Nolan said something that stopped me in my tracks.

“He looked lonely, Dad.”

His voice was soft, thoughtful, almost offhand. But that simple observation hit me harder than I expected.

We had just passed a man sitting alone on a bench outside the milkshake shop. I hadn’t paid him much attention—caught up in the usual fog of adult responsibilities: work emails, bills, errands. But Nolan noticed him. And more importantly, Nolan saw him.

Kids have a way of cutting through noise. While adults are busy analyzing or second-guessing, children respond with instinct and heart. Where I saw a stranger on a bench, Nolan saw a person who might need a friend. He didn’t offer a deep analysis. He didn’t suggest we do anything. He just noticed—and cared.

That night, I couldn’t shake what Nolan said. I found myself reflecting on how many people I pass by every day without really seeing them. How often I’m too wrapped up in my own world to stop and acknowledge someone else’s.

Nolan’s words were a quiet reminder that compassion doesn’t require big speeches or grand gestures. Sometimes, it’s just about presence. About noticing.

The following Friday, we went back for milkshakes. Same place. Same time. A little tradition was beginning to form.

This time, when we walked in, something unexpected happened. The person behind the counter handed us our milkshake—with two straws. Just like that.

It was such a small detail, but one that carried weight. It said, “We remember you. We noticed you, too.”

From then on, every Friday became milkshake day. Nolan and I would sit together, laughing, talking, sometimes sharing quiet moments. And every week, two straws. Always two.

It became more than just a weekly treat. It turned into a ritual—a moment carved out of the chaos of life, to remind ourselves what it means to connect. It reminded me to slow down and to really see the people around me, even if just for a moment.

Nolan probably doesn’t realize how deeply his little comment changed me. For him, it was just a passing thought, a natural extension of his gentle heart. But for me, it was a wake-up call.

I started looking around more—at neighbors, cashiers, strangers on the street. I began asking myself, “Does that person need a kind word? A smile? Someone to listen?” Because now I know that even the smallest gesture can matter.

The man on the bench? I never learned his name. I don’t know his story. But I think of him every Friday, when I watch Nolan reach for his milkshake and smile.

That single moment—those five simple words—sparked something I didn’t realize I’d lost: the awareness that we’re all walking through this world side by side. And sometimes, what someone needs most isn’t advice, or help, or answers. Sometimes, they just need to know they’ve been seen.

These Fridays with Nolan are no longer just about the milkshakes. They’re a reminder of how kindness works—not with force, but with quiet consistency. Not with noise, but with presence.

Nolan continues to lead with his heart. And now, I try to do the same.