I was five years old when I learned that the most profound kindness often arrives without a smile.

In a small Jewish shop tucked away in the area of my youth—there was a woman, Mrs. Goldstein,  who taught me how to see. I had a guinea pig called Alexander the Great, and the she had told me I could pull the wild tufts of grass that grew in their back yard.

Every time I arrived with my bag, she would stop serving and draw the attention of the entire shop.

“Here he is,” she’d announce to the customers. “More grass. Comes in here, never buys anything. Go on then, get your grass.”

I would walk through to the yard, gather the grass, and head back through. The performance would repeat. She would huff with a mock-disgust that could have curdled milk, but then she would stop me. “And I suppose you want a sweet as well,” she’d mutter, offering me a jar.

While I took a handful, she would mock-look away as if disgusted.

She loved me, and I loved her. But where I came from, kindness never came with a smile. It teaches you to see the truth in situations and not be manipulated by fake compliments or smiles.

It was a lesson I carried with me.