I sat down across from Mr. Benning, feeling the weight of memories I hadn’t realized I was carrying. He talked slowly, sharing stories about his late wife, his days working the docks, and how he missed the simple routines that aging had taken away.

As we ate, I thought about my dad — how tough he’d been, how he never asked for help, and how I sometimes resented that stubbornness. Mr. Benning’s gentle smile reminded me of the kindness my dad had buried beneath his gruff exterior.

Before I left, Mr. Benning placed a worn hand on my shoulder and said, “Sometimes all we need is someone to stop and see us.”

Driving home, I realized I’d been so caught up in frustration and pride that I’d forgotten what my dad really needed — patience, respect, and a little help.

That night, I called him. It was the first time in a long while. I just said, “Hey, Dad. Can I come by tomorrow?”

Because sometimes, changing how you see others starts with changing how you see those closest to you.