The Secret of The Sandwich Man

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.

Eventually, coworkers noticed me leaving in a hurry. When I explained, their guilt mirrored mine. One by one, they joined in. Fridays became Sandwich Fridays. The break room filled with bread, peanut butter, jelly, and paper bags. Someone even made stickers — a cartoon sandwich with a superhero cape. Paul would’ve hated the attention, but he would’ve loved the intention.

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