The first complaint came at 2:15 PM.
“Mr. Francesco has been in the break room for thirty minutes,” my assistant said, looking at her watch. “Breaks are only fifteen.”
I waved it off. “He’s probably tired. I’ll check on him.”
Five minutes later, another employee came to my door. This time, they sounded irritated.
I found Mr. Francesco sitting alone, his old, rough hands covering his face. When I asked if he was okay, he jumped up, like a student caught sleeping in class.
“I’m fine,” he said quickly. “I just… I had a small anxiety attack. I’m trying to catch my breath.”
I told him to take all the time he needed.
Ten minutes later, a third complaint came: “Francesco hasn’t taken out the trash, and there’s no toilet paper in the women’s restroom. How long is this break going to last?”
That’s when I’d had enough.
I called everyone into my office.
“Mr. Francesco has worked here for twenty-six years,” I started, my voice firm. “He is a widower, and he lost his son last year. To get to this country, he crossed a jungle and a river on foot. He was in the military and defended Kuwait in 1990. He donated a kidney to save a stranger’s life. He has survived three big surgeries. He is fifty-eight years old.”
The room was silent.
“This man has given more to this building—and to this world—than most of us ever will. So if you see him sitting down to catch his breath, leave him alone. If there’s no toilet paper, come find me. I’ll replace it. I can take out the trash, too.”
I looked around. “Any volunteers to help? No? Then I’ll do it. But let Mr. Francesco have his peace.”
From that day on, no one ever complained about him again.
Sometimes he still sits a little longer. Sometimes he stops in the middle of the hallway, lost in thought. And honestly? After everything that man has been through, the least we can do is let him rest.
When people asked why I defended him so strongly, I said something simple: “Because kindness costs nothing—but not being kind costs everything.”
