I was on a flight home from India with my dad, when a boy started kicking my seat for 10 minutes straight. My dad politely asked him to stop, but the boy kept kicking. In response, my dad reclined his seat and when they asked him to put it up, he smiled and said, “Only if he stops kicking my daughter.”
The flight attendant looked awkward. The boy’s mother, clearly annoyed, huffed and muttered something under her breath. But my dad stayed calm. I could feel the tension in the air, though. For a few seconds, no one said anything. Then the kicking stopped.
I looked over at my dad, wondering how he managed to keep his cool. He leaned toward me and whispered, “People are always going through something, even if they don’t show it. But that doesn’t mean we have to accept disrespect.”
That stuck with me.
A few hours later, we landed in Frankfurt for our layover. The plan was to grab some food, stretch, and catch our connecting flight to Toronto. The boy and his mom were ahead of us in line at immigration. She looked tired. The boy, no older than nine, was now whining about his stomach.
My dad noticed.
He walked over slowly and said, “Hey, is he okay?”
The woman, caught off guard, softened a little. “He gets motion sick. Didn’t eat much before the flight.”
My dad reached into his bag and pulled out a pack of ginger candies. “These help. I keep them for flights. You can have the whole pack.”
The woman hesitated. Then took them. “Thank you,” she said, quietly.
It wasn’t a dramatic change in tone, but I noticed the shift. The irritation from earlier had turned into something more human. A quiet understanding.
We went our separate ways, and I didn’t think much more about them.
Back in Toronto, life resumed. My dad went back to work at the small family-owned convenience store he’d run for years. I returned to school, juggling assignments, part-time jobs, and trying to figure out life like every other 20-year-old.
A few months passed.
One chilly afternoon, I went to visit my dad at the store. It was a quiet day. He was restocking gum when a woman walked in. I recognized her almost immediately.
It was the same woman from the flight.
She looked just as surprised to see me. “You’re the girl from the plane,” she said. Then she looked at my dad. “And you… you gave my son the ginger candies.”
My dad nodded, smiling gently. “Did they help?”
“They did. He slept most of the next flight. I wanted to say… I wasn’t very polite that day. I was exhausted, and my son was having a rough trip. But you were kind anyway. Thank you.”
My dad just shrugged. “It’s okay. That’s life.”
Then she paused. “Actually, I think you might be able to help me with something.”
She explained that she’d just moved to Toronto for a new job in event planning, but was struggling to find a good spot for last-minute snacks and drinks for her small events. She asked if my dad ever did bulk orders or could deliver.
He didn’t—but something about the way she asked made him say, “Maybe we can figure something out.”
That was how it started.
She began placing weekly orders. Nothing huge at first—just drinks, chips, chocolates. My dad would pack them up, and I’d sometimes help deliver them. Over time, the orders got bigger. Water bottles, fruit snacks, custom goodie bags. She even asked for some items from India that my dad specially ordered.
Then, one day, she showed up with her boss.
Her company had landed a big corporate client and needed consistent snack delivery every week for their offices downtown. They didn’t want to deal with big chains. They wanted something personal. Local. Reliable.
I still remember the way her boss leaned over the counter and said, “I like this place. It feels honest.”
Within weeks, my dad’s tiny convenience store had a brand-new revenue stream. He expanded the back room, hired a part-time helper, and even bought a second-hand delivery van. It was surreal.
That boy kicking my seat? Indirectly helped my dad’s business double.
But it didn’t stop there.
As I watched this all unfold, I felt this itch. A curiosity.
What if we leaned into this?
I pitched my dad an idea: We should build a small website for custom snack packs. For events, offices, even birthdays. He wasn’t tech-savvy, but he trusted me.
So I built a simple site. I used pictures from the store, set up a contact form, and wrote a blurb that said, “Real snacks. Real people. Delivered with care.”
Within two months, we had six recurring clients.
By month five, a local daycare chain ordered monthly “healthy treat bags” for kids. Then a wedding planner asked for party favor snack boxes. People loved that we were small. Personal. Real.
And to think—it all started with a kid kicking my seat.
Looking back, it’s funny how moments that frustrate us can become doorways.
But the real twist?
About a year after that flight, I got a call from a number I didn’t recognize.
“Hi, is this Anaya?” a woman asked.
“Yes…”
“This is Tanya, from the plane.”
It took me a second to remember her name. Then it clicked.
“I know this is out of the blue,” she continued, “but I’ve been following your snack business. A friend of mine is looking to invest in small, promising local brands. I told him about your dad’s store and what you’ve been doing.”
I was quiet.
“I’m not saying you have to accept anything,” she said quickly, “but he wants to meet you. Just a coffee. No pressure.”
I agreed.
I met her friend—a quiet man in his forties who worked in logistics and had helped several local businesses scale their delivery services. He liked our story. More importantly, he liked our values.
He offered to help us streamline deliveries, cut down costs, and even connect us with local suppliers at better rates. No strings attached. Just a small equity stake and monthly updates.
We thought about it. Long and hard.
Eventually, we said yes.
Within six months, we’d launched “SnackCircle”—a rebrand of our service with a focus on curated snack experiences. My dad kept the original store, of course. But SnackCircle became something new. A way for us to share kindness the way he always had—with small, thoughtful touches that made people feel seen.
We even created a “Kindness Pack”—inspired by that ginger candy moment on the plane. A box with teas, mints, chocolates, and a card that said, “Sometimes, all it takes is one kind gesture.”
It became our best seller.
Every time one went out, I smiled.
Life didn’t get easier overnight. We had our setbacks. Lost a few clients. Had shipping issues. But something about the way we started kept us grounded.
I never saw the boy again. But his mom, Tanya, became one of our most loyal clients and biggest supporters. She even helped us get featured in a local magazine.
And my dad?
He still doesn’t really get websites or social media. But he loves reading the thank-you notes that come with every order. Especially the ones that say things like, “Your snacks made my wedding day special” or “My son loved the treat box during his exam week.”
Last winter, at our one-year SnackCircle anniversary, my dad gave a short toast.
He said, “I came to this country with nothing but a suitcase and a smile. I never thought giving someone a ginger candy would turn into this. But it just goes to show, kindness never expires. It circles back.”
He raised his glass, and we all clinked.
The reward wasn’t the business or the website or even the money.
It was watching my dad’s values—his quiet grace—become the foundation of something that touched others.
That flight from India taught me something I’ll never forget.
Not every kick to your seat is a setback. Sometimes, it’s the start of a story you never saw coming.
So next time someone tests your patience, try grace. Not because they deserve it, but because you do.
Kindness doesn’t guarantee a reward. But it always leaves a mark.
And sometimes, just sometimes, the world finds a way to return it—with interest.
If this story made you smile, made you think, or reminded you of someone in your life—share it with them. Let them know that kindness, even the smallest kind, matters. And if you’ve got a story like this, one that surprised you in the best way, drop it in the comments. I’d love to read it.
