Last week, I accompanied my father to the bank. He needed to make a simple money transfer, and what should’ve been a quick task stretched into over an hour.

I’ll admit, I was getting a little impatient. I stood beside him, watching him slowly go through the process, chatting with the bank staff, checking each line of the form, and I couldn’t help myself.

“Dad,” I asked, trying to sound casual, “why don’t we just set up online banking for you? It’ll save you all this time and effort.”

He turned to me, puzzled.
“Why would I do that?” he asked.

“Well,” I replied, launching into the benefits like a seasoned tech rep, “you wouldn’t have to leave the house, no lines, no waiting. You can shop online, transfer money in seconds. Even order food or groceries with a tap.”

He smiled gently. But then, instead of agreeing with me, he said something that stopped me in my tracks.

“Son, do you know how many people I’ve talked to today, just by coming here?”

He paused and looked around the bank.
“Since I walked through that door, I ran into four of my old friends. I had a good laugh with one of the tellers, and even got asked how my blood pressure’s been lately. These people know me. They remember me.”

He looked back at me and continued, his voice softer now.

“You know I live alone. Your mom’s gone, the house is quiet. Coming here, getting dressed, chatting with people—it gives me something to look forward to. It’s not about the money transfer. It’s the human contact I need.”

I didn’t say anything. I just listened.

“Two years ago,” he said, “I got sick. Do you know who came to see me? The man who owns the fruit stall I visit every week. He sat beside my bed and cried.”

“And when your mom slipped and fell last month on her walk, the grocer from the corner store saw her, picked her up, and drove her home. He didn’t need to ask for directions—he knew exactly where we lived.”

He looked me in the eye.

“Would Amazon do that for me? Would my online bank know if I didn’t show up one week? Would it miss me?”

I had no answer.

“Technology has its place,” he said, “but it’s not life. Life is people. Relationships. Community. We weren’t meant to live isolated, glued to screens. We were meant to laugh with each other, look into each other’s eyes, offer a helping hand when needed.”

He leaned back in his chair, content.

“The world’s dying not because we lack convenience—but because we’ve traded connection for comfort.”

In that quiet bank lobby, I realized I hadn’t brought my dad there to help him transfer money. He brought me to remind me what truly matters.

Not everything faster is better. Not every shortcut leads somewhere worth going. Sometimes, taking the longer path brings you closer to people—and to yourself.