THE LEGEND OF THE 75,000 DOUGHNUT DISPENSER—AND THE REASON I COULDN’T JUST FLASH A SMILE AND TAKE ONE
I’d encountered the moniker “Donut Boy” long before our paths crossed. News reports, social media murmurs, the general grapevine—it all spoke of this young man traversing the land, bestowing doughnuts upon police officers as tokens of appreciation. Seventy-five thousand doughnuts, they asserted. Honestly, who embarks on such a mission at his tender age?
Thus, when he materialized at our precinct, a palpable excitement rippled through the air. Even the chief, for once, smoothed out the creases in his uniform. And indeed, there he stood—a wide, genuine smile illuminating his face, a box clutched in his hands, parents lingering just behind.
Everyone eagerly snatched a doughnut, extended a hand in greeting, captured a selfie. I remained in the background. Feigned immersion in report filing, but the truth was, I simply couldn’t bring myself to partake.
It wasn’t about the sugary treats themselves. Nor was it about the boy, personally. It revolved around an incident from two months prior, a secret confined to myself and one other within the department, and that individual remained tight-lipped.
I could sense my partner’s gaze from across the room, a knowing intensity in his eyes, as if he deciphered the very cause of my detachment. As if he anticipated a misstep from my side.
Donut Boy completed his circuit, eventually halting at my desk. He presented a maple bar, eyes wide with youthful sincerity. Before conscious thought intervened, the words escaped my lips:
“Thanks, kid. But I don’t deserve one.”
His grin wavered, ever so slightly.
Precisely then, my partner materialized at my side—leaning in close, as if to impart some confidential remark. Instead, he merely breathed, a hushed question:
“You planning to tell him why?”
Silence was my only response.
Story continues in the first 🗨️⬇️The boy’s smile didn’t falter entirely, but a flicker of confusion shadowed his youthful eyes. He was, after all, just a kid. Too young to navigate the murky waters of adult guilt and unspoken burdens.
My partner straightened, a hand briefly resting on my shoulder. “Maybe we can chat later, kiddo,” he said smoothly, redirecting Donut Boy with practiced ease. “Go spread some more cheer. This guy’s just having a… moment.” He winked at the boy, a paternal gesture that seemed to reassure him. Donut Boy, bless his oblivious heart, simply nodded and moved on, doughnut box in tow.
The instant he was out of earshot, my partner’s jovial façade vanished. “Okay, spill,” he commanded, low and sharp. He steered me towards the deserted break room, the clatter of donut-fueled chatter fading behind us. He closed the door, leaning against it, arms crossed. “Two months ago, remember? The Rodriguez case. Care to enlighten me why you suddenly feel so… undeserving?”
The Rodriguez case. The name alone was enough to send a cold shiver down my spine. Two months ago, a domestic dispute call. Rodriguez and his wife, loud voices, neighbors concerned. We arrived, the scene tense but seemingly contained. Rodriguez, agitated, yelling, but no immediate signs of physical violence. His wife, Maria, stood back, arms crossed, face tight with anger and something else I should have seen – fear.
My mistake? Dismissing it too quickly. Rodriguez was all bluster, I reasoned. Domestic disputes were messy, often fuelled by alcohol and fleeting rage. We separated them, talked them down, advised Maria about shelters, and left. A textbook intervention, or so I thought.
Two days later, Maria Rodriguez was dead. Rodriguez, fuelled not by fleeting rage but by simmering, lethal possessiveness, had waited until we were gone, until the thin veneer of calm we’d imposed had evaporated. He’d beaten her savagely, fatally.
The internal investigation was swift, brutal. Our response was deemed adequate, protocol followed. No fault was officially assigned. But the weight of it settled squarely on my shoulders. I was the senior officer, the one who should have seen past the yelling, past the apparent lack of immediate physical harm. I should have sensed the danger radiating from Rodriguez, the desperate fear in Maria’s eyes. I had been complacent, lazy even, in my assessment. And Maria Rodriguez had paid the ultimate price.
“It was Rodriguez,” I finally choked out, the words thick with shame. “Maria Rodriguez. We were there. And we left. And she… she died.”
My partner’s expression softened, but there was no surprise in his eyes. He already knew. He’d seen my haunted look in the mirror every morning, heard the restless tossing and turning during our shared shifts. He’d known the silence wasn’t just silence; it was the heavy weight of unspoken guilt.
“Look,” he said, pushing himself off the door, stepping closer. “You can’t carry this alone. We both responded to that call. We both made the assessment. It wasn’t just you.”
“But I was in charge,” I argued, the self-recrimination bitter on my tongue. “I should have… I should have done more.”
“Maybe,” he conceded, his voice low. “Maybe we both should have. But dwelling on ‘should haves’ won’t bring her back. And beating yourself up over a doughnut won’t change anything either.” He paused, then his gaze sharpened. “But telling that kid you don’t deserve one? That’s… that’s a cry for help, isn’t it?”
He was right. It was. And the realization, spoken aloud, was a jolt. I wasn’t just refusing a doughnut; I was refusing kindness, refusing forgiveness, refusing to move on. I was punishing myself, wallowing in guilt, and achieving nothing but further isolating myself.
“So,” my partner prompted, his voice gentler now. “What are you going to do about it?”
I looked back towards the main room, the faint sound of Donut Boy’s cheerful chatter still audible. He was just a kid, spreading joy with sugary treats. He didn’t know about Maria Rodriguez, about my mistakes, about the weight I carried. And he didn’t need to.
But maybe… maybe I needed to do something. Not for Donut Boy, not even for Maria, not directly. But for myself.
I took a deep breath, the stale break room air suddenly feeling a little less suffocating. “Maybe,” I said slowly, turning back to my partner. “Maybe I should go thank him.”
He nodded, a small, encouraging smile touching his lips. “Maybe you should. And maybe,” he added, glancing back towards the door, “maybe you should take that doughnut.”
I hesitated, the weight of guilt still heavy, but now… now there was a sliver of something else. A flicker of hope. A possibility of moving forward, of learning from the past, of maybe, just maybe, deserving a little bit of kindness, even a sugary one.
I walked out of the break room, the noise of the precinct buzzing around me again. I found Donut Boy near the exit, packing up his remaining boxes. He looked up, a question in his eyes.
I walked towards him, a different kind of smile forming on my face, not feigned, not forced, but… genuine. “Hey,” I said, my voice clearer now, stronger. “Kid? You wouldn’t happen to have another one of those maple bars left, would you?”
His face lit up, the full wattage of his youthful enthusiasm returning. “Sure do! For you? Absolutely!” He practically bounced as he offered me the box again.
This time, I didn’t hesitate. I reached out, took the maple bar, and met his bright, expectant gaze. “Thank you,” I said, meaning it with every fiber of my being. “Thank you, Donut Boy.” And for the first time in a long time, the sweetness of the doughnut didn’t taste like ashes in my mouth. It tasted… like hope.