We sat at a corner booth in Waffle House, just me and my five-year-old son, Josiah, sharing a quiet dinner together. The familiar hum of the restaurant—clinking dishes, low chatter, the sizzling of hash browns—wrapped around us like a warm blanket. But then Josiah’s small hand tugged at my sleeve and pointed outside, where under the flickering streetlight stood a man with tired eyes and worn clothes.

I explained softly that he might be homeless, and I watched as something stirred deep inside my son. Without hesitation, Josiah ran to the door and invited the man to join us, his innocent kindness silencing the entire restaurant. As the man hesitantly stepped inside, welcomed by the smiles of strangers, Josiah’s simple act had already begun to change the room—but none of us yet knew just how much.