The Secret of The Sandwich Man

All those times we joked about his “boring lunch,” guilt washed over me.

I started helping — carrying bags, handing out food, making small talk he struggled with. He never asked, but he let me. One morning, while we were making sandwiches in his tiny apartment at dawn, I asked why he did it. He quietly spread peanut butter 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 speech. It was 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: “Is Mr. Sandwich Man okay?”

Two days later, the hospital called. Me — his emergency contact. The only one.

Paul had collapsed from exhaustion. In the hospital, pale and embarrassed, he still smiled.

“Did you bring sandwiches?” he whispered.

I told him I had — I made them myself. He closed his eyes, relieved.

“Promise me you’ll keep it going,” he murmured. “Just until I’m back.”

I promised. For weeks, I rushed home after work, made sandwiches, and delivered them. At first, the kids were cautious. But when they saw the familiar sandwiches, their shoulders relaxed.Continue reading…