I still remember the day my son, Daven, came running up to me, his hands clutching a bag of cookies like they were treasures. He was grinning, his eyes full of excitement, talking a mile a minute.
“Mom, the police officer bought them for me!” he said.
At that moment, it seemed like just another small, kind gesture. 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!” Daven replied.
“Well, you gotta work hard for that,” the officer had smiled.
It was a brief exchange. A simple act of kindness from a man who didn’t know my son, but who made an impact that would last far longer than anyone could have imagined.
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 news. The excitement he had just moments before turned into confusion, and then something much heavier—something a 13-year-old should never have to carry.
“Mom… I just talked to him,” he kept repeating. “He was just there.”
How do you explain to a child that kindness doesn’t make you invincible? That even good men can be taken away in an instant? That life, no matter how precious, doesn’t always seem fair?
I couldn’t find the words. And to this day, I still don’t have them.
But I do know this: That one moment stayed with Daven. It shaped him. It showed him 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 vast emptiness that seemed far too heavy for a boy his age. Daven stopped talking about basketball. He stopped playing as much. The light in his eyes dimmed slightly, and I worried that this tragedy had stolen something from him.
Then, one day, something changed. Daven came home from school, dropped his backpack, and said, “Mom, I wanna do something good.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know yet. But something.”
He started small. Helping an elderly neighbor with groceries. Sitting with the new kid at lunch, the one everyone ignored. He didn’t wait to be asked for help—he just saw the need and acted.
I could see Officer Henwood’s legacy in him. In the quiet, consistent ways he mirrored that kindness, making the world just a little better than he found it.
When high school came, Daven’s love for basketball returned. He played with a fire I hadn’t seen before, driven by something deeper than just a dream of the NBA. He worked hard, just like Officer Henwood had advised. 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 and often overlooked. After a tough loss, I saw him sitting alone in the bleachers, his head down. The other players had left, but Daven walked over and sat next to him.
I didn’t hear their conversation, but I saw the way Daven leaned in, the way Ramon’s shoulders lifted just a little. 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 pursue 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 as 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.
Then, one day, it all came full circle.
Daven was on duty when he stopped at a small corner store for a coffee. A little boy stood at the counter, counting coins in his hand, brows furrowed in concentration.
“Missing some?” Daven asked.
The boy looked up and 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 brief, 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 has a way of bringing things 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 Daven has touched, and in the countless lives yet to come.
Maybe that’s the lesson. 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.