One by one, Paul handed out the meals with gentle words and careful hands. No speeches, no fanfare, no desire for recognition. Just quiet presence and steady compassion.
When he noticed me watching, he smiled as though I’d simply caught him doing what he did every evening.
It hit me in that moment. Those sandwiches at work weren’t just his lunch. They were practice. Paul made the same peanut butter and jelly every morning because it was simple, filling, and easy to replicate for the children. “No one complains,” he said. “Some of them even say it’s the best part of their day.”
All those times we teased him about his “boring lunch,” guilt washed over me.
I started helping—carrying bags, handing out meals, chatting with the kids, though Paul was better at that than I was. One morning, while we were making sandwiches in his small apartment at dawn, I finally asked him why he did it. He quietly spread peanut butter on bread as he spoke:
“I grew up in foster care. Some nights, I didn’t eat. You learn fast how small you can feel. Hungry and invisible… that sticks with you.”
It wasn’t a grand speech. It was a simple truth. For Paul, sandwiches weren’t charity—they were a way to heal a wound that never fully closed.
Then, one week, he didn’t show up. No texts. No calls. At the library, a little girl tugged on my sleeve and whispered, “Is Mr. Sandwich Man okay?”
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