Paul Advent - A Place at the Table

First Advent

As I walked through the streets of our city on this first Sunday of Advent, I noticed him at once. A man slumped on a park bench, surrounded by a few paper bags and a shopping trolley — a home on four squeaking wheels. He looked the way people expect someone in his position to look gaunt, exhausted, weather-beaten, with tangled hair, a wild beard and a jacket that had survived too many winters.

My first thought was the usual one — and I was ashamed of it almost at the same time. He’ll only spend the money on booze anyway. It’s a sentence you think quickly when life is comfortable. But then he lifted his head. His eyes held something that stopped me: warmth, sorrow, but above all dignity. Something deeply human.

I hesitated — then went over. Against my habit.

“Good afternoon,” I said. “Can I help you? I… I’m often unsure whether giving really makes a difference. Or am I wrong?”

He beckoned me closer as if he’d been expecting this moment. “Sit down,” he said quietly. “If you have a few minutes. It’s the first Advent Sunday. A good day to remember we’re not alone in this world.”

I sat beside him. He gave a fleeting smile.

“You look like you’ve done well for yourself,” he went on. “Maybe it would do you some good, too, not to think only in numbers for once. I can’t give you anything — except a story. And sometimes a story is worth more than a few coins.”

He drew a slow breath, as though opening a heavy suitcase.

“I’ve been living on the streets for years. In summer you get by somehow, but when winter comes, everything tightens. There are shelters, yes. But there are rules. You must be inside by ten, out by six, share rooms with strangers, and sometimes you feel less like a person than a number. So, I often chose not to go. Stubbornness, perhaps. Or the last scrap of self-determination.”

He cleared his throat. “My name is Paul. Paul M., from B. And believe me: I wasn’t always here.”

He spoke softly, without drama, but with a clarity that was hard to hear.

“I grew up in the forties in an ordinary middle-class family. Nothing glamorous, but a good childhood. School, an apprenticeship, a steady start with the railways. A safe job, regular hours, a pension scheme — everything you need to build a life.

And I built it. I married a woman I loved. We had three children, two years apart. I was happy — truly happy. Work went well; we lived modestly but comfortably. I thought this is what a future looks like.”

For a moment he smiled into the memory.

“Then came the offer to go abroad. Africa. A project meant to last a year at most. An adventure, a step up. We talked it through for ages. In the end we decided the children should stay. I’d go alone. Sensible, we thought.

The goodbye was hard, but full of hope. We wrote to each other, often at first. The children tucked drawings into the letters. I carried them like treasure.”

His gaze dropped.

“After the first year the letters came less often. Shorter. And then one arrived that pulled the ground from under me: my wife couldn’t bear a long-distance marriage any longer. She’d filed for divorce. And she was moving in with Heinrich Z.”

He shook his head. “It hurt. Not only because of her, but because I felt the children had moved on too — without me. I was far away, and I wasn’t the sort who could fight for them from another continent. I signed.”

Paul fell silent for a while, as though he had to live the scene again.

“I stayed on in Africa. Work was the only thing that kept me upright. When I finally returned after two more years, I was empty inside. I found a modest room, another job, but I’d lost my footing. I wasn’t in the old rhythm anymore, not in the old order. I made mistakes, looked neglected, flared up too quickly. The others kept their distance. I did too. And then I was standing in the personnel manager’s office. They ‘generously’ extended my notice period. Three months. Then I was out.”

He let out a short, bitter laugh. “On paper it was fair. In my heart it was the first real fall.”

He told me about the night he drank, the confrontation with Heinrich, the police station. Not to excuse himself, not to dramatize it.

“And then the slide began. First the alcohol. Then one job after another — each shorter than the last. Less foothold. In the end I was just a pair of hands in a warehouse. Then not even that. When the payments stopped, the flat went. And at some point, I was here.”

He brushed his jacket as if it were an old coat of memory.

“You go quiet after you’ve lived like this for a long time. You become invisible. Sometimes I saw my children by chance. They didn’t recognise me. My wife walked past as if I were air. And you know… I didn’t even blame her anymore. Who looks when they don’t have to?”

He looked up again. His eyes were wet, but steady.

“But I’ve learned this: hope can be thin as paper — and still carry a man. I’m old. I’ve made mistakes. But I don’t believe it’s too late to be a person among people again. If not for everything, then at least for what’s left.”

He stopped. I didn’t speak. The cold sat on the bench between us, and yet I felt as if a warm draught had passed — the kind that slips out of an opening door.

I took out my wallet, pulled out a fifty-franc note, and put it into his hand, holding his fingers for a second.

“Thank you for trusting me with your story,” I said.

He only nodded. “Thank you for listening.”

Second Advent

All week I thought about Paul — his voice, his eyes, and the first judgement I’d made so automatically. One part of me — the comfortable, cynical part — whispered: He’ll have drunk it away by now. Another part replied more quietly: Maybe it was a warm bed. A meal. A beginning.

The second Advent Sunday came. It was damp and grey, the pavements shining like varnish. The city was full of people, full of lights, full of hurry. Christmas decorations hung over the streets, and even the sky seemed brighter, as if it knew what was coming.

Outside a bank I saw Paul sitting on the ground. In front of him stood a small box with a few coins, and beside it a bit of cardboard that read: “Thank you for your kindness.”

I stopped. This time without inner resistance.

“Hello, Paul.”

He looked up — and I caught my breath. He’d changed. His clothes were clean, his beard trimmed, his hair neat. He looked… more awake.

“You again,” he said, smiling.

“Have you time for something warm?” I asked. “How about fondue?”

His smile widened. “Fondue? I can’t remember the last time I had fondue. Yes. That would be lovely.”

We went to one of the fondue huts at the Christmas market. Inside it was crowded and warm, smelling of cheese, woodsmoke and winter perfume. People at the entrance gave Paul a quick once-over — then glanced at me — and made room anyway. I felt their looks, the murmurs. It bothered me less than I’d expected. Perhaps because Paul was so matter of fact about it. He sat down as if he had every right to that chair — and he did.

When the fondue arrived, we dipped bread into the bubbling pot, and after a few minutes everything felt normal. That’s the magic of eating together: it takes away rank and gives you your humanity back.

Paul told me what he’d done with the money. No grand speech, no excuses.

“A bed. A shower. And clean underwear,” he said. “Sounds trivial, but… it reminded me of who I used to be.”

He met my eyes. “And I’m drinking less. Not because I’ve suddenly become better. But because I’ve got a goal again.”

I nodded.

At some point I found myself speaking, almost without noticing. About my childhood, losing my father early, the stepfather who was “alright” but never close. About work that was going well, and a life that looked right from the outside — and sometimes felt hollow within.

“I still don’t know what I’m doing this Christmas,” I admitted. “I have two younger siblings. We hardly see each other. Maybe I should simply invite them.”

Paul listened without interrupting. And I felt how easy it was to speak when you don’t have to justify yourself.

Near midnight we stepped back into the cold. The lights above us glittered, and the market carried a drift of music and laughter.

“Thank you, Paul,” I said.

He only nodded. “Sometimes all it takes is a place at the table.”

I walked home, and it felt as though someone had set a small, invisible lamp inside my chest.

Third Advent

On Monday there was still a trace of white wine in my head, but it was a good sort of headache — one that tasted more of laughter than regret. The week at the office flew by. The figures were strong, and so was the mood. I realised I was kinder — not put on, but like someone finally allowing himself to remember that people aren’t line items.

Sofia brought my coffee and I thanked her sincerely. Cindy and Hildi exchanged astonished looks when I greeted them in the morning and asked about their weekend. I’d never guessed so little could shift so much.

On Sunday I had to go into the office to pick up a few papers. I left the car at home and took the tram and bus. Why? Perhaps the city felt good when it moved a little slower.

At Wettinger Square I got off and headed to the coffee bar for an espresso.

And there he was.

Paul.

“Paul!” I was genuinely stunned. He looked younger — not only in his face, but in the way he carried himself.

“I greet you,” he said. “And this time I’m greeting you from a better morning.”

We sat down with our coffees.

“I’ve found a place to stay,” he told me. “A centre that helps people like me get back on our feet. No pressure, no preaching — but structure. A small room, twenty people, a shared routine. The staff helped me apply for a pension and supplementary support. And yes… I stick to a few rules be on time, take responsibility, drink less.”

His voice vibrated with something I hadn’t heard in him before: pride.

“My body’s taken a beating,” he admitted. “But the doctors say it isn’t too late if I mean it. And I do.”

We talked for a long time. I told him more about myself, my siblings, my mother, the distance that had crept in over the years. He listened as always — calm, attentive — as if he possessed time in the truest sense of the word.

When I looked at my watch it was late. The kiosk had closed; the paper cups were empty.

I handed him my business card. “Ring me next Saturday. I’d like to see you once more before Christmas.”

He slipped it into his pocket and gave me a knowing wink. “I will.”

I went home, and the dark tram windows reflected a face that felt more familiar to me than it had in a long time.

Fourth Advent

The last working week before Christmas had usually been a dutiful routine: final reports, corporate messages, a formal toast, then silence.

This year was different. I felt it from Monday onwards. And I wanted it to be different for everyone else too.

On Friday I sent the staff home early. Sofia fetched pizzas and prosecco, Hildi and Cindy decorated the meeting room a little — not gaudy, just warm.

When everyone had gathered, I said, “I want to thank you. Not only for results and figures, but for your commitment, your reliability, and for what we build together here each day. This year has been exceptional — because of you. The bonuses reflect that. But today I mainly want us to raise a glass together. Without a programme. Simply as people.”

I lifted my glass. “Happy holidays.”

I saw tears, laughter, flushed cheeks. And for the first time I understood that leadership doesn’t have to be cold.

On Saturday at nine my phone rang.

“Ciao, it’s Paul,” said the voice I now knew instantly.

I sat up. “Paul! I was hoping you’d call.”

“You wanted me to get in touch.”

“I did. And… I’d like to invite you. On Christmas Day. To my home. I don’t want to spend it alone. And you — you’ve given me more these last weeks than you realise.”

There was a pause. Then he said quietly, “Thank you. I’ll come.”

Christmas

When Christmas Day arrived, I was nervous like a boy before his presents. My siblings were already there, lively, curious, and a bit puzzled about whom I might have invited. They guessed colleagues, friends, perhaps even a new partner.

The catering had been delivered, the flat smelled of fir needles and good food. In the sitting room stood a simple spruce, just like in the old days: red and white candles, a few apples, glass baubles. Beneath it lay gifts on a white cloth. Soft music played in the background.

At six o’clock sharp the doorbell rang.

“A Mr Paul is here,” said the caterer.

I went to the door — and there he stood.

Clean-shaven, well-groomed, in a plain suit with shirt and tie. He held a parcel in his hand.

“For the tree,” he said, handing it to me.

My siblings stood behind me, peering past my shoulder. I simply said, “This is Paul. A friend. We met in town.”

We sat down in the sitting room. Paul looked around, not greedily, not shyly — more as if something here belonged to him in a way he couldn’t yet explain.

His gaze settled on the photographs on the mantel.

“That’s your mother,” he said slowly. “And… is that your father?”

“Our stepfather,” I replied. “Our real father died early.”

Paul stared at the picture again. Something flickered in his eyes — something I couldn’t read.

I lit the candles. We left the electric lights off, and for a moment we sat in the soft glow in silence. Outside, somewhere, footsteps crunched on cold pavement. Inside, it felt as if the house had stopped breathing for a heartbeat.

Paul lifted his glass. “Tonight, I’m allowed one,” he said, almost mischievously. Then he looked straight at me — friendly, steady. “Have you told them who I was?”

I shook my head. My siblings frowned, confused.

Paul tilted his head slightly. “Then I’ll say it myself. I was homeless. I was an alcoholic. I lived at the edge. And I’m here because your brother saw me.”

Silence — short, awake silence.

I said quietly, “Yes. And I’m glad he’s here. We’re not celebrating because everything was perfect. We’re celebrating because it’s possible to find your way back to each other.”

Paul nodded. “That’s exactly it.”

Then he pushed a present towards me. “This is for you. Open it first.”

I felt a strange tug in my stomach, as if a long-forgotten string had been plucked. The wrapping was simple, carefully folded, tied with wool. I opened it slowly.

A picture frame.

I turned it over.

The photo was old, worn, slightly greasy from having been carried too long in a pocket. It showed us: my siblings as small children, me as a slightly older boy, my mother — and a man beside her.

A younger Paul.

The air left my lungs. My hands trembled.

Paul stood up. His voice was brittle, but clear.

“You are my son.”

A sentence that left no room for doubt.

“I knew it the moment I saw you on that bench. First your voice, then your face. I’ve been looking for a way back — not into the past, but to you. And I didn’t want that moment in the street, between noise and hurry. I wanted it here. Under a Christmas tree.”

My siblings stared at the photo. Then at Paul. Then at me.

And then someone began to cry. First him. Then us.

Not a theatrical sobbing — more a quiet overflowing, as if all those lost years had finally found their place.

Outside it was bitterly cold. The sky was clear, the stars distant and calm. People hurried home with hands in pockets, past glowing windows.

But inside we sat together.

Not because everything had been good.

But because this time no one had to be alone.

Merry Christmas.