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| Abbi Perets still remembers an act of kindness from a stranger. Courtesy of Abbi Perets |
It was a Sunday morning in 2013 when I shuffled downstairs, desperate for my first cup of coffee. My Nespresso machine, that bright, beautiful little appliance, had long been a small source of joy and a cornerstone of my morning routine. But this morning was different — heavier than most.
Two days earlier, my 10-year-old, the middle child of my five, had been diagnosed with leukemia. I was exhausted in every possible way: physically from long hours and little sleep, mentally from the endless swirl of questions about the future, and emotionally from the sheer weight of fear that had settled into my chest. That morning, more than ever, I needed the comfort of a simple ritual — pressing a button and watching my coffee flow.
I switched the machine on, pressed the familiar button, and… nothing. No comforting hum, no rich aroma, no dark stream of liquid in my cup. My first thought was almost primal: I cannot deal with this right now. Of all the things that could go wrong in my life at that moment, the coffee maker seemed trivial — but it was also the one thing I thought I could still control. And now, even that was gone.
A Coffee Machine That Meant More Than Coffee
The Nespresso wasn’t just another kitchen gadget. It had become a quiet but vital anchor in my chaotic world. Before owning one, I’d had a large, complicated espresso machine with a bean grinder and milk steamer — the kind of setup that delivered great coffee but required more time and effort than a mother of five, constantly chasing toddlers, could realistically spare.
That changed the day I was at a friend’s house for a playdate. She pulled out this sleek little machine, popped in a capsule, pressed one button, and within seconds handed me a perfect cup of coffee. I was stunned. Four seconds from craving to sipping. I knew immediately I had to have one. Even though money was tight at the time, I saved and bought a vibrant red Nespresso. It wasn’t a splurge for me — it was an investment in a small piece of sanity.
When our family of seven relocated from the US to Israel in 2011, the Nespresso was part of my moving plan. I made sure that when we landed, the exact same machine would be waiting for me. Amid the chaos of moving, adjusting, and raising a big family, my morning coffee routine stayed blissfully the same.
The Day Everything Changed
When my son received his leukemia diagnosis, my life split into before and after. Suddenly, my days were consumed by hospital visits, medical updates, and the complex juggling act of caring for four other children at home. The hospital became my second home, and my mornings — whether I was waking up in my own bed or in a chair next to his hospital bed — began with the same thought: Coffee first, then everything else.
That morning, when the machine wouldn’t work, it wasn’t about caffeine withdrawal. It was about losing the one predictable, comforting ritual left in my day. I decided I had to get it fixed as soon as possible, for my own peace of mind.
An Unexpected Kindness
The following day, after stopping at the hospital, I called Nespresso customer service. They directed me to the nearest service center, which informed me the machine was out of warranty. Repairs would cost money — money I was willing to pay because I couldn’t bear to let this little source of stability slip away.
When I walked into the service center, a young woman in her twenties greeted me and handed over a form. I picked up the pen, wrote my name and phone number, and then stopped. I looked at her and said, my voice already shaking, “I can’t fill this out right now. My child is in the children’s hospital down the street. He has cancer.”
Her eyes widened in surprise and compassion. She told me not to worry about the paperwork — just leave my number. She promised she’d call me when it was ready.
Later that afternoon, she phoned to say the machine had been fixed and was ready for pickup. But there was one problem: I couldn’t make it there before closing. She didn’t hesitate. “I’ll wait for you,” she said.
A Gift I Never Expected
When I arrived, breathless and past closing time, she handed me the machine with a smile. It had been repaired — and cleaned — free of charge. I hadn’t asked for special treatment. She didn’t have to waive the payment, or stay late, or even show such tenderness to a stranger she’d met only hours before. But she did.
Standing there, holding my restored coffee machine, I burst into tears. It wasn’t just about the machine. It was about someone choosing to see me in that moment — to meet me where I was, with generosity and kindness, instead of bureaucracy and rules.
The Lesson I Still Carry
It’s been years since that day, and yet, every morning when I press that button, I think about her. I think about the way a small, simple act can become a lifeline for someone else. She could have just done her job. Instead, she went out of her way to make things easier for me on one of the hardest days of my life.
Since then, I’ve tried to carry that spirit into both my personal and professional life. Not every act of kindness has to be grand. Sometimes it’s letting someone cut in line. Sometimes it’s holding the elevator. Sometimes it’s cleaning a stranger’s coffee machine without asking for a dime.
That young woman will probably never know how much her actions mattered to me. But she changed something in me. She reminded me that in a world where not everyone chooses kindness, we each have the power to be the one who does.
