To the mom of three at Chick-Fil-A—there is something I need to tell you. Something you may not even realize you gave to me and my son that day.

It was dinner rush, and the restaurant was buzzing with families. My son, Malachi, sat beside me in his wheelchair. He is bright, full of joy, and loves being around kids his own age, but often those moments of connection slip past him. Too many people hesitate, unsure of how to respond to his differences. Too many children are quickly shushed or pulled away by embarrassed parents.

That’s why, when your five-year-old son suddenly pointed and shouted, “Mom, look at THAT boy!”—my heart braced itself. I watched you freeze. Panic flickered across your face as you leaned down, whispering urgently to him and his three-year-old brother, telling them that we don’t say things like that, that it isn’t polite to stare. I knew those words well—I’ve seen countless parents say them. And I also knew, deep down, that such whispers rarely work with curious young minds.

Sure enough, your boys kept looking. Their questions only grew louder. I could see you wrestling with what to do—whether to hush them again, gather them up, and retreat, or to face the moment head-on.

And then I saw it. You took a deep breath. You steadied yourself. And instead of shrinking away from discomfort, you chose courage. You walked your boys over to us. With a gentle smile, you said, “I bet he would like to know your names.”

In that instant, something incredible happened. Malachi’s face lit up. His smile stretched wide, his eyes sparkling as he jabbered happily back at your boys. My son—who so often watches children from a distance, hoping they will speak to him, hoping they will not be afraid—was suddenly included. Seen. Welcomed.

Your boys, innocent and curious, began asking question after question:
“Why does he wear those things on his feet?”
“Why doesn’t he walk?”
“Why does he hold his mouth open like that?”

And instead of shutting them down, you leaned into their curiosity. Patiently, calmly, you explained. You let them learn that different is okay. That there is no need to fear what they don’t understand. That it is good—even important—to ask questions, to seek understanding instead of hiding from it.

I cannot tell you how rare that moment was. Too often, we hear the whispers, see the stares, feel the awkwardness that makes people turn away. As a special needs mom, I’ve grown used to it. We develop tough skin because we have to. We learn not to crumble under the weight of curious glances or whispered comments. But what you gave us that evening was the opposite of rejection. You gave us connection.

As I watched Malachi beam with happiness, as I saw your boys lean in with genuine interest instead of fear, my heart swelled. Tears filled my eyes. Because in that simple choice you made—not to silence, but to engage—you gave my son a gift. You gave him the joy of being spoken to, the joy of being asked about, the joy of being treated like any other child.

You may not have realized it in that moment, but your actions taught your children something far greater than manners. You taught them empathy. You taught them courage. You showed them that kindness doesn’t mean pretending differences don’t exist—it means celebrating those differences, asking about them, and embracing them with open hearts.

And for me, you lifted a quiet weight I carry every day. The weight of knowing my son longs for friendships, yet is so often overlooked. The weight of worrying that the world will always see “different” first and “Malachi” second.

So thank you, Chick-Fil-A mom. Thank you for not retreating into panic. Thank you for being brave enough to walk toward us, not away. Thank you for raising your children to ask questions, to seek understanding, and to extend kindness where so many others fall silent.

That night, you gave my son something he will remember: the joy of being included. And you gave me something too: hope. Hope that there are parents teaching the next generation not to fear differences, but to embrace them.

You may never know how much it meant to us—but I will remember it for a lifetime.