It started like any ordinary Saturday. My 6-year-old son, Micah, and I were in the mall food court when he noticed a janitor named Frank—tired, slumped, and sad. “Why does that man look sad?” Micah asked. Moments later, he offered Frank his cookie and asked, “Do you miss your dad?” Frank broke down, embracing Micah in silent grief.
The next day, Micah returned with his old dinosaur hoodie, telling Frank, “It’s really warm.” Touched, Frank joined us and shared his story: he’d lost his son and grandson in a car crash. Saturdays had once meant calls and laughter—now just work and loneliness. Micah said softly, “You can still be somebody’s grandpa—mine.” Every Saturday after, Frank joined us for lunch, sharing sandwiches and memories.
