“Mom, the police officer bought them for me!” he said.
At the time, it was just a small moment—kind, yes, but nothing that seemed world-changing. Just a man in uniform, standing in line at McDonald’s, overhearing my son ask for ten cents and deciding to do more.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” the officer had asked him.
“An NBA star!”
“Well, you gotta work hard for that.”
That was it. A quick, simple exchange. A man who opened his wallet and, in doing so, opened his heart to a boy he didn’t even know.
Minutes later, that officer—Jeremy Henwood—was gone. Shot while sitting in his patrol car.
I’ll never forget the way Daven’s face changed when he heard. The way that excitement turned to confusion, then something heavier—something no 13-year-old should have to carry.
“Mom… I just talked to him,” he kept saying, over and over. “He was just there.”
How do you explain to a child that kindness doesn’t make you invincible? That good men can be taken away in an instant? That life, no matter how precious, isn’t always fair?
I couldn’t. I still can’t.
But what I do know is this: That one moment stayed with my son. It shaped him. It made him see that kindness is worth something, even in a world where good people don’t always get to stay.
And because of Officer Henwood, my son—now a man—carries that lesson with him every single day.
For weeks after the shooting, Daven struggled to make sense of it. He would bring up Officer Henwood at the dinner table, in the car, before bed.
“Mom, why him? He was nice.”
“I know, baby.”
“But he didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know.”
There were no answers, just a void that seemed unfairly large for a boy his age. He stopped talking about basketball for a while. Stopped playing as much. The light in his eyes dimmed just a little, and I worried that this tragedy had stolen something from him.
Then, one day, something shifted. Daven came home from school, dropped his backpack, and said, “Mom, I wanna do something good.”
“I don’t know yet. But something.”
He started small. He’d help carry groceries for our elderly neighbor. He’d sit with the new kid at lunch, the one everyone ignored. He stopped waiting for people to ask for help—he just saw the need and acted.
I saw Officer Henwood’s legacy in him. In the little ways he mirrored that kindness, making sure to leave the world just a bit better than he found it.
High school came, and Daven’s love for basketball returned. He played with a fire I hadn’t seen before, driven by something deeper than a dream of the NBA. He worked hard, just like Officer Henwood had said he should. But it wasn’t just about the game anymore.
During his senior year, something happened that made me realize just how much that moment all those years ago had shaped him.
There was a boy on his team, Ramon, who wasn’t the star player. He was quiet, often overlooked. One day, after a tough loss, I saw him sitting alone in the bleachers, head down. The other players had left, but Daven walked over and sat next to him.
I didn’t hear what he said, but I saw the way he leaned in, the way Ramon’s shoulders lifted just slightly. The next day, at practice, Ramon played harder than ever.
Later that night, I asked Daven about it.
“I just told him he mattered,” he said. “That one game doesn’t define him. That he’s got something special.”
A lump formed in my throat. “That was really kind.”
Daven shrugged. “It’s what Officer Henwood did for me.”
College came, and with it, new challenges. Daven got a scholarship to a state university, but he turned it down. Instead, he chose to go into criminal justice. I was surprised, but when I asked him why, his answer was simple.
“Because good people should wear the badge too.”
He worked hard, just like he always had, and years later, he graduated from the academy. The first time I saw him in uniform, my heart swelled with both pride and fear. But in his eyes, I saw certainty. He knew why he was doing this. He knew who had set him on this path.
And then, one day, it all came full circle.
Daven was on duty when he stopped at a small corner store for a quick coffee. A little boy stood at the counter, counting coins in his hand, his brows furrowed in concentration.
“Missing some?” Daven asked.
The boy looked up, nodded.
Without hesitation, Daven pulled out his wallet and handed the cashier a few dollars.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” he asked.
“A firefighter.”
Daven smiled. “Then you gotta work hard for that.”
It was a small moment. A quick, simple exchange. A man in uniform, opening his wallet and, in doing so, opening his heart to a boy he didn’t even know.
Just like Officer Henwood had done for him.
Life comes full circle in ways we don’t always expect. We don’t get to choose how long we have, but we do get to choose what we leave behind. Officer Henwood’s kindness didn’t save him, but it lived on—in my son, in the people my son has touched, and in the countless lives still to come.
And maybe that’s the lesson. That kindness isn’t about what we get in return. It’s about planting seeds in others, even when we may never see them bloom.
So if you ever wonder if a small act of kindness matters—remember this story.
It does. It always does.
If this story touched you, share it. Let’s keep kindness alive.
