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Hearts. Stick figures. Kids holding hands. One drawing showed a sandwich floating like a gift, passed along a line of children. Another had a speech bubble: “I’m not hungry today. Thank you, Mr. Paul.”
It stunned me.
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.”
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.
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