Even though my black coffee had become lukewarm fifteen minutes already, I took a long drink. In any case, I was hardly tasting it. Invoices, past-due emails, and a tightness in my chest that I couldn’t identify but had been carrying for weeks filled my mind. My four-year-old, Nolan, tugged at my sleeve while his large hazel eyes gazed up at me.
“Milkshake?” he said in a gentle, upbeat tone.
What a trivial request. However, it struck me like a lifeboat during a tempest. As I looked at the pile of unpaid bills on the kitchen counter, my phone rang with yet another unwelcome work call. Then I turned to face Nolan again.
I forced a smile as I answered, “Yeah, buddy.” “Let’s go get that milkshake for you.”
We went to O’Malley’s Diner via car. It was one of those locations that had been forgotten by time. The linoleum floor was a checkerboard of yellowish tiles, the booths were a faded crimson, and the jukebox in the corner hadn’t been in working order since the Clinton era. However, their milkshakes were the greatest in town.
With a lot of energy and childlike delight, Nolan clambered into the booth across from me and drummed his fingers on the table until the waitress arrived. He placed his typical order: more cherry, vanilla, and no whip. I received nothing. The milkshake wasn’t the main reason I was here.
I noticed his small sneakers tapping against the vinyl seat as he fidgeted while we waited. Something about him seemed so unconcerned. As if the world hadn’t yet affected him. No worries about dead-end jobs, mortgages, or relationships that didn’t work out. Just a simple, pure presence.
Nolan shone when the milkshake came. He chirped, “Thanks, Miss Carla!” to the waiter, who winked at him before laughing and leaving.
Leaning back, I let my gaze to roam around the diner. At that moment, I saw a second young boy sitting by himself at a booth across the room as his mother vanished into the bathroom. Wearing small gray shorts and Velcro sneakers that flashed up when he kicked his feet against the bench, he was no older than three.
Never one to back down, Nolan walked over and quietly slipped out of our booth. Something in me told me to hold off on calling him back, even if I was ready to do it out of some hazy parental instinct.
For a moment, he stood before the youngster, observing him. Nolan then climbed onto the seat next to him, put one arm around his small shoulders, and offered his milkshake with the most effortless elegance I’ve ever witnessed.
Just one straw. A single cup. It was held in two small hands as if it were the Holy Grail.
Without hesitation, the second boy leaned forward and took a taste. Without even looking to see if it was alright. As if they had been acquainted for years.
They remained silent. They were not obliged to.
That moment held a really spiritual quality. Something that felt like a pulse in my chest but that I was unable to describe. Don’t introduce yourself. Not a pretense. Don’t care about their origins or identity. Just a small, silent gesture of goodwill.
When the boy’s mother noticed them, she paused in mid-step as she emerged from the restroom. She glanced at me, obviously uncertain. I nodded to her and stood carefully, hoping that my soft smile conveyed that everything was well. I understand.
Something softened in her countenance as she turned to face them again, her son sharing a milkshake with a stranger’s youngster. Her lips formed a tiny, weary smile as her shoulders lowered. The smile you offer when someone gives you a tiny bit of grace after life has been throwing you around.
Then, with the cup still in his hand, Nolan turned to face me and remarked, “He looked lonely, Dad.”