I was reminded of a wonderful person and a beautiful story this week, and I thought it was worth sharing. About a year ago, my friend Eesa’s mother passed away suddenly. Eesa and I were quite close, but he needed space, so we only exchanged texts every couple of days. About a month later, he invited me and a few other friends—whom I didn’t know well—to his parents’ house for lunch. The meal he prepared was delicious. Afterward, we all gathered in their large Moroccan-style living room, where Eesa shared touching stories about his mother. Others chimed in with their own memories—how she would pick them up from football with homemade snacks or shout for them to come inside at Maghreb time while they hid outside, laughing. Cute stories like that. When it came to my turn, I didn’t have much to say. I had heard many nice things about her, but I had only met her once.

At the end of the evening, Eesa handed me a Tesco carrier bag with a plastic container inside, which I assumed was leftover lunch. We hugged, and I said my goodbyes. On the way home, I found myself thinking about that one time I did meet her.

It was sometime in 2021 when I visited Eesa’s parents’ house. They hadn’t known I was coming, but they invited me in with open arms and asked me to stay for dinner when I showed up at the door. The meal his mother cooked was incredible. Among other things, she had made three different types of hummus. I love hummus more than just about anything in the world, and to this day, I think of it as the best hummus I’ve ever had. I couldn’t stop talking about how delicious it was. She smiled and said to me in her broken English, “You may not always find me at home, but there are always at least three types of hummus in the fridge. You’re always welcome to come over.”

I never got the chance to see her again, but I’ve had dinner at their house with Eesa a few times since, and each time, there were three types of hummus in the fridge. Each time, I couldn’t stop talking about how good they were.

Her story reminds me that true legacy isn’t built on grand gestures or public recognition, but on the small, everyday acts of kindness that make a lasting impression. It’s not the material wealth or status that endures, but the warmth of a meal shared, the comfort of a welcoming home, and the generosity that makes others feel valued. The most generous people often leave behind more than just memories; they leave behind a sense of belonging, of being cared for, that lingers long after they’re gone.

As I unpacked the container Eesa had given me that evening, I found, to my surprise and delight, three different types of hummus. In that simple gesture, I realized something important: legacies are often like that—a quiet, thoughtful act that makes you feel remembered, welcomed, and loved. And maybe, in the end, that’s the most meaningful legacy of all.