… “The two men who saved your life are right outside, waiting to say hello.”
I stared at her, still trying to process it all, my mind foggy from dehydration and whatever illness had knocked me out. But when she said, “your babies are safe,” something inside me released, like a knot that had been tangled for too long.
The doctor later explained that my blood pressure had plummeted, likely due to a combination of the flu and exhaustion. I had been running myself into the ground, trying to do everything for everyone, until my body finally said, “enough.”
But let me rewind, because what led up to that Monday is what really makes this all meaningful.
When Jesse and Lila were about two, they became fascinated with the garbage truck. Not the garbage itself, of course, but the truck’s massive size, loud noise, and the routine of it all. Every Monday, like clockwork, they would press their faces against the window, eager to watch the truck come by. Eventually, I gave in and let them rush outside to see it.
Theo was the first to notice them. A tall, soft-spoken man with a calm demeanor, he’d honk the horn once, just a simple greeting. Rashad, the more animated one, would wave at them like they were old friends.
And just like that, it became a ritual. The kids would high-five them, share jokes, and one day, Rashad even brought them each a toy garbage truck from the dollar store. Jesse treated his like a treasure, and Lila made hers a little bed out of a shoebox, insisting it sleep next to her.
To my children, those men weren’t just garbage collectors; they were heroes. Reliable, steady, and kind. I used to joke that they were the only adults who never disappointed us.
So when that Monday turned everything upside down, it wasn’t really a surprise that those two men were the ones who stepped in.
When I was finally discharged from the hospital, I made sure to be up and dressed that next Monday, standing outside with Jesse and Lila. My voice cracked when I thanked them. Rashad simply gave me a hug and said, “We look out for our people.”
After that, things changed.
We started making them coffee on Mondays, sometimes muffins. The kids drew pictures for them, which we stuck to the truck with magnets. Theo told us he kept one in his locker at the depot. Rashad began bringing stickers for the twins every week. It turned into a strange but beautiful friendship, a bright spot in the chaos of our lives.
One day, Theo asked if I’d ever thought about sharing the story.
I laughed. “Who’d care about a garbage truck and two toddlers?”
But he said, “You’d be surprised who needs to hear about good people doing good things.”
So, I posted it online. Just a short story—about the truck, the twins, and the day they saved my life.
It went viral.
Thousands of comments. Shares. News outlets reached out. Someone even started a fundraiser to thank sanitation workers in our city. Rashad and Theo received an award from the mayor, and the twins got honorary badges and hard hats.
But what I’ll remember most isn’t the fame or the attention.
Months later, Jesse had a meltdown one morning. He was crying because Lila got to pull the lever twice, and he only got one turn. It was one of those mornings—cereal on the floor, toothpaste in someone’s hair, me barely hanging on.
I was about to give up and drag everyone back inside when Theo crouched down beside Jesse and said, “Hey buddy, it’s okay. Sometimes life gives your sister two turns. But guess what? You get shotgun today.”
Jesse wiped his tears. “Really?”
“Really. Safety vest and all.”
His face lit up like someone had just handed him the moon.
That’s when it hit me: it wasn’t about the garbage truck at all. It was about how someone can show up—really show up—when it matters. Whether it’s in a moment of crisis or just on a regular Monday morning when you feel like you’re failing as a parent.
People talk about heroes like they’re unreachable. But sometimes, they show up in orange vests, driving a loud truck, ready to make your kids laugh and help you carry the weight when you’re too tired to do it yourself.
Things are better now. My husband’s back, the twins are in kindergarten, and I’m working part-time again. But Mondays? They’re still sacred.
Every week, Jesse and Lila wait on the porch—now in sneakers instead of bare feet, still with that same sparkle in their eyes.
And me? I watch from the steps, coffee in hand, feeling thankful. Not just for Rashad and Theo, but for the reminder that kindness is everywhere if you just take a moment to notice.
So if you’ve got someone in your life who shows up, even when they don’t have to—tell them. Tell their story. Share it. Like it. Because the world needs more of that.