The complaints started coming in around the same time every afternoon. The janitor, Francesco, was taking too many breaks. Disappearing for long stretches. Not finishing his rounds on time. People were frustrated. Trash wasn’t getting picked up as quickly as they wanted. The breakroom needed cleaning. Why was he always gone? The manager listened to the complaints, nodded, made notes, and promised to address it. But first, she wanted to find Francesco herself. To hear his side before making any decisions.
She found him in the back hallway, sitting on a bench, hands covering his face. His shoulders were shaking. She approached quietly, her frustration evaporating the moment she saw him. Francesco? She sat down beside him, keeping her voice gentle. He looked up, his face wet with tears, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. He tried to speak, tried to explain, but the words wouldn’t come. She recognized it immediately. An anxiety attack. She’d seen them before. Lived through a few herself.
She didn’t rush him. Didn’t demand explanations or ask why he wasn’t working. She just sat there, waiting, letting him breathe through it. When he finally calmed down enough to talk, the words came slowly, haltingly. He was sorry. He knew people were upset. He was trying his best, but sometimes the panic just came and he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t push through it. He just needed a few minutes to pull himself together. Then he’d get back to work. He always got back to work.
She asked him how long this had been happening. He hesitated, then told her. Since last year. Since his son died. She felt her chest tighten. She didn’t know. No one knew. Francesco had kept it private, kept working, kept showing up every day even though his world had shattered. She asked gently if there was anything else. Anything she should know. He looked at her, exhausted, and the story came out. Not all at once. But enough.
He was 58 years old. A widower. His wife had passed years ago. His son, his only child, died last year. He’d crossed jungles on foot to get to this country decades ago, looking for safety, for opportunity, for a better life. He’d served in the military, defended Kuwait during the war. He’d donated a kidney to a stranger who needed it, nearly died during complications, survived three surgeries. And through all of it, he’d kept working. Kept showing up. Kept doing his job as best he could.
The manager sat there, stunned into silence. All those complaints. All that frustration over trash not being picked up quickly enough. And here was a man who’d given everything — his health, his safety, his family — and was still trying. Still showing up every day despite carrying grief so heavy most people would’ve crumbled under it. She made a decision in that moment. She stood up, told Francesco to take all the time he needed, and walked straight to the staff meeting.
She called everyone in. Told them Francesco’s story. Not to shame them, but to remind them. To give context. To ask a simple question: if this man, who has survived and sacrificed and lost so much, needs a little extra time to collect himself, can’t we give him that? Do we really need to complain about trash bags when he’s just trying to hold himself together? The room went silent. Some people looked down, ashamed. Others had tears in their eyes. No one said a word.
From that day on, not a single complaint came in about Francesco. Not one. People started checking on him instead. Offering kind words. Bringing him coffee. Asking if he needed help with anything. Someone left a card on his cart one day that just said, thank you for everything you do. He kept it in his pocket. The manager told him later that if he ever needed anything — time off, someone to talk to, a lighter workload — all he had to do was ask. He thanked her, his voice thick with emotion, and said he just needed people to be patient. That’s all. Just a little patience.
Now, when people see Francesco taking a break, sitting quietly in the hallway, they don’t complain. They understand. He’s not being lazy. He’s not avoiding work. He’s surviving. He’s carrying grief and trauma and exhaustion that most of them couldn’t imagine. And he’s still here. Still showing up. Still doing his best. That’s not something to criticize. That’s something to honor.
The manager put up a sign in the breakroom after that meeting. It’s still there. It says: Kindness costs nothing — but not being kind costs everything. People walk past it every day. And every time they do, they think of Francesco. Of the man who lost everything and kept going anyway. Of the reminder that we never really know what someone else is carrying. And that sometimes, the most important thing we can do is offer grace instead of judgment. Patience instead of complaints. Humanity instead of inconvenience.
Francesco still works there. Still takes his breaks when the panic comes. Still shows up every single day, doing a job most people don’t notice until it’s not done. But now, people see him. Really see him. Not as the janitor who’s too slow. But as a man who’s survived more than most of us ever will. A man who deserves rest. Who deserves kindness. Who deserves to be treated with the same dignity and respect he’s given to everyone else his entire life.