The best thing I did was to choose the right heroes.

Host: The morning light crept through the venetian blinds of a small diner off Highway 61, painting narrow stripes of gold across the worn countertop. The smell of coffee, eggs, and grease hung in the air — the kind of scent that belonged to routine, to the quiet moments between dreams and obligations.

Outside, trucks rumbled past, their engines echoing through the thin glass. Inside, two figures sat in the corner booth, their voices low, their faces half-lit by the morning sun.

Jack stirred his coffee, the spoon clinking against the cup in a slow, rhythmic beat. His grey eyes were distant, fixed on nothing and everything at once. Across from him, Jeeny watched, her hands wrapped around her mug as if to borrow its warmth. Her expression was soft, but her gaze carried weight — the kind of thought that can’t be easily spoken.

She opened a small notebook, the pages creased and filled with quotes, and read aloud with quiet reverence.

Jeeny: “The best thing I did was to choose the right heroes. — Warren Buffett.”

Host: The words hung in the still air, gentle but loaded, like dust floating in a beam of light.

Jack snorted, a half-laugh, half-sigh.

Jack: “Heroes. That’s a nice word for idols we invent to excuse our own failures.”

Jeeny: “You think heroes are just idols?”

Jack: “What else could they be? Stories we tell ourselves to feel less lost. People look up at someone like Buffett, or Mandela, or Mother Teresa — and they forget that even heroes bleed. They just bleed off-camera.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point, Jack? We don’t need our heroes to be perfect. We need them to remind us what’s possible. That even in a flawed world, there’s still a way to stand, to build, to choose something good.”

Host: The waitress walked past with a tray of plates, the sound of ceramic against metal breaking the tension. Jack watched the steam from his coffee curl, his jaw tightening as if he were arguing with a ghost only he could see.

Jack: “You talk about heroes like they’re maps, Jeeny. But most people don’t choose the right ones — they worship the loudest, the richest, the cruelest. You think it’s accidental that half the world wants to be like Musk or Bezos instead of Buffett? We don’t admire virtue anymore. We admire power.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because power is easier to see. Virtue doesn’t make headlines. But Buffett didn’t mean heroes in the celebrity sense. He meant the people who shaped his character — the teachers, the mentors, the voices that taught him to think long-term, to choose integrity over glory. That’s what he was talking about.”

Jack: “Integrity doesn’t pay the bills, Jeeny. It’s easy to preach about morality when you already have millions in the bank. People don’t have the luxury of idealism when they’re just trying to survive.”

Jeeny: “You think poverty kills principle? Look at Gandhi. He had nothing, but he led millions with his truth. Or Malala — she risked her life just to speak. You think they were luxuriating in idealism? No. They were choosing their heroes — and becoming them.”

Host: The sunlight shifted, falling now across Jeeny’s face, glinting in her eyes. Jack looked up, studying her like a man standing before a painting he didn’t quite understand but couldn’t walk away from.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple — as if all it takes is choice. But most people don’t get to choose. They’re born into systems that teach them who their heroes are. The kid growing up on the streets learns to admire the one who survives, not the one who sacrifices.”

Jeeny: “And yet,” she whispered, “every generation has someone who breaks that pattern. Someone who looks up and says — no, that’s not who I want to be. That’s how change begins, Jack. With one different choice.”

Host: The diners around them chattered, laughed, ate, the world moving in its small, ordinary ways. But at that table, the air was dense, alive, as if the truth itself had taken a seat between them.

Jack: “You really think heroes can still save us?”

Jeeny: “No. But they can still guide us. And that’s enough.”

Jack: “You talk like there’s still light in people. Maybe I’ve just seen too many idols fall. Politicians, activists, CEOs — all of them preaching one thing, living another.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t that we chose heroes and they fell, Jack. Maybe it’s that we forgot how to forgive them when they did. Maybe we expected gods when what we needed were mirrors.”

Host: A pause. The silence felt thick, beautiful, fragile.

Jack leaned back, his hands folded, his eyes softened — the kind of softness that comes from remembering something buried deep.

Jack: “My old man used to say, ‘You can tell who you are by who you look up to.’ I didn’t get it then. I do now. He was my first hero, I guess. Worked his hands to the bone, never complained, never lied. He wasn’t great, not by any standard, but he was good. Maybe that’s the difference.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.” Her voice brightened, gentle, but sure. “That’s what Buffett meant. It’s not about fame — it’s about direction. The heroes you choose don’t just inspire you — they shape your compass. They decide what kind of human you’ll try to be.”

Jack: “Then maybe the real tragedy isn’t that we don’t have heroes anymore. It’s that we’ve forgotten how to see them. We’re too busy watching screens, chasing spectacle.”

Jeeny: “But that’s why we need to choose again. Consciously. Choose kindness over cynicism, humility over ego, builders over destroyers.”

Host: Outside, a truck passed, its tires splashing through a puddle, sending a faint ripple of sound through the window. Inside, the light had turned warmer, the day fully awake.

Jack smiled, that small, reluctant curve that always came when his defenses finally cracked.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the best thing I could still do is to choose the right heroes — and try not to fail them.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe,” she said, her eyes bright, “the best thing you could do is to become one for someone else.”

Host: The waitress returned, pouring another round of coffee, the steam rising like a quiet prayer between them. Jack looked out the window, watching the morning spread across the world like a slow forgiveness.

Host: And for a moment, the din of the diner, the hum of the road, the heartbeat of ordinary life — all of it seemed to pause, balanced on a single truth:

That in the end, what saves us are not the heroes we find, but the ones we choose to follow, and the courage to live by what they teach — quietly, steadily, humanly.

And as the sun rose higher, the light touched their faces — not like a spotlight, but like a benediction.