He came in after I restocked the coffee station—clothes torn, shoes falling apart, face worn with more than just fatigue. He asked quietly, “Do you have any change? Just enough to eat?”
I’d been burned before. I asked, “Why don’t you work?”
He sighed. “Too many felonies. No one will hire me. I beg or steal to survive.”
He wasn’t angry—just defeated.
That day, I was short-staffed. Dishes were piled up in the back. I could’ve given him food and sent him off. Instead, I asked, “Do you want to work?”
His eyes lit up. “I’ll do anything.”
He scrubbed dishes, swept floors, took out garbage—worked nonstop. When I paid him, I expected him to disappear. But he walked to the counter and bought food.
“I want to buy my own meal. It feels good,” he said.
He’s shown up every morning since. Still homeless, but he’s saving, got new clothes, a haircut—dignity.
One night, I offered him a full-time job. He said yes.
Three months later, he’s my best worker. Found a place to live. Regained his confidence.
He didn’t need a handout—just a chance.
We don’t know people’s stories. Sometimes, belief is all it takes to change a life.
