This morning I was fortunate to observe a small act of kindness. I was deep in thought, making my ritualistic walk to work, when I found myself trailing about ten feet behind a mother and her two sons, presumably on their way to school.

I watched as the older of the two boys (about 10, by my estimate) witnessed a woman drop a set of keys as she distractedly rummaged through her purse while crossing the intersection. Reflexively, the boy swooped down to grab the keys and chased after the woman who, startled, accepted them with a smile before briskly walking away. The boy rejoined his  family, who at this point was about halfway down the block—his face turned up eagerly toward his mother’s, hoping for what I can only presume was praise, or at minimum, a small acknowledgment for his good deed. Instead, she looked away and marched onward in silence. The moment was fleeting but heart-breaking; the expression on his face turned quickly from one of hope to that of disappointment.

For a brief second, I considered running up to him, to offer him an accolade for his act of kindness. But just as quickly as the thought occurred to me, it dissipated—censored by my own diffidence and inertia. Who was I to offer it? How would my intervention be received by the mother? By the young boy?

But as I continued to weave my way through the streets of lower Manhattan, I couldn’t help but wonder, how long would it take, how many unacknowledged acts of kindness would it take for this young boy to become hardened like the rest of us—numbly staring at the wall of buttons as elevator doors slid shut in the faces of late arrivers? How many years would it take for apathy to eclipse his instincts?