So when Paul quit, it surprised everyone. No farewell email, no announcement. He simply told the manager, packed his things, and left. I happened to be nearby and offered to help. He thanked me with that familiar quiet smile. I expected nothing more than some old pens and sticky notes in his desk. Instead, I found a bundle of children’s drawings tied with a worn rubber band.
It stunned me.
Paul never talked about kids. No photos, no stories, no nieces or nephews. Just his routine, his quiet kindness, and those simple sandwiches. When I asked about the drawings, he didn’t explain. He simply said, “Ever been to the West End Library around six? Come by sometime. You’ll see.”
A few days later, curiosity got the better of me. I went to the library and found Paul by the side entrance with a cooler bag, neatly packed brown paper sacks inside. Fifteen children — some homeless, some barely getting by — were waiting. One by one, he handed out a bag with gentle words and steady hands. No speeches, no attention-seeking. Just presence.
When he noticed me, he smiled as if I’d caught him doing something ordinary.
“Most of them don’t get dinner,” he said. “I just want to make sure they have one meal a day.”
It hit me then: the sandwiches at work weren’t just his lunch. They were practice. He made the same PB&J each morning because it was simple, filling, and easy to duplicate. “No one complains,” he said. “Some of them even say it’s the best part of their day.”Continue reading…
