At my old job, there was a quiet coworker named Paul who never changed his routine. Every day at lunch, he pulled out the same plain sandwich. No snacks, no drink, nothing extra. A few people joked about it, calling it boring, but Paul always smiled and said nothing. When he left the company, I helped clear out his desk and found something unexpected tucked inside a drawer: a bundle of children’s drawings tied together with a rubber band, filled with hearts, stick figures, and simple thank-you notes.
Paul had never talked about family or kids, so the drawings confused me. When I asked him about them later, he didn’t offer much explanation. He simply suggested I stop by the West End Library one evening after work. Curious, I went a few days later and saw him standing near the side entrance with a small cooler and paper lunch bags. A group of children waited patiently as he handed each one a sandwich, speaking softly and never drawing attention to himself.
That’s when I learned the truth. Paul made extra sandwiches every morning, identical to his own, so the kids would have something dependable to eat. He told me he had grown up in foster care and remembered how hunger felt worse when it was paired with being unseen. This wasn’t about praise or charity for him. It was about giving something steady and familiar to kids who needed it.
When Paul became ill and had to step away, I promised to keep going. Soon, coworkers joined in, turning it into a weekly effort that grew beyond anything we expected. Paul later started a small nonprofit to continue the work, focused on simple, consistent help. He never called himself special. But watching the difference one small habit made changed how I see kindness forever. Sometimes, the quietest actions leave the strongest impact.
