There’s a bloke in our office. Well, not exactly a bloke—a grown man, 36 years old. But he’s… different.

To put it bluntly, he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed. Not even a little bit. But I hired him six years ago, and I’ve never regretted it. The oddest part? He *knows* he’s not clever, and he doesn’t hide it. When he first came in for the job, the first thing he said was:

“Hello! I’m not smart, and I won’t pretend to be. But I need work—my mum’s poorly, can’t work anymore, and she needs medicine.”

It threw me at first, but I could see he was genuine. Not so bad that he couldn’t handle straightforward tasks, though. He reminded me of Dustin Hoffman in *Rain Man*, one of my favourite films. I clocked it straight away—didn’t want to make him feel small.

“You’re brighter than most trying to hide their daftness. Alright, start tomorrow.”

And just like that, he became part of the team. Six years he’s worked here, just like everyone else. Different, yes, but honest, decent, never late—honestly, he’s the best employee I’ve got. He got his mum back on her feet after her stroke—though we chipped in a bit with meds and physio—but he did the bulk of it, never complained once. The whole office adores him, treats him like family. Loved him so much we fed him up from 75kg to 100! Bloke’s practically my twin now.

Anyway—day before, I’m back in the office after a long break, and my assistant hits me with it straight off:
“Oliver’s quitting! Can you talk him out of it? How’ll we manage without him?”

I was gobsmacked. Quitting? *Why?* Had someone upset him? Called him in, and ten minutes later, he shuffles in, chin practically on his chest, won’t look up.

“Oliver, what’s going on? Something wrong? Someone giving you grief? Point ‘em out, I’ll sack half the office!”

“No, no—nothing like that. I love them all. It’s just… well…”

“Spit it out, mate. Your mum alright?”

“Yeah, she’s fine, thanks… I just… I want to get married.”

My brain short-circuited. *Married?* Who on earth—but who am I to judge? He’s as human as I am. Still, it threw me.

“Fair enough. She on board with this? Assuming there *is* a she?”

“Oh yeah! She’s been asking me to come live with her—in *Sweden*. Me and my mum. She loves us both!”

Right. That… didn’t sit well. A bloke like him, autistic, off to Sweden? With his mum? Sounded dodgy.

“Must be a good lass if she’s taking your mum too.”

“She’s gorgeous—red hair, *way* cleverer than me. Here, look.”

Then he whips out an *iPhone 7*. Blimey. All these years he’s had that battered old Nokia we kept trying to “lose” so he’d upgrade. We even got him a Samsung for his birthday, and when I switched phones, I gave him my old Sony. But he never budged—too much change. Then suddenly… *iPhone 7?*

“Caroline gave it to me. Loaded it up with photos so I wouldn’t miss her.”

By now, my head’s full of worst-case scenarios. Expected some half-naked Pamela Anderson lookalike. But the photo *actually* shocked me. A redhead—sweet-faced, but with the markers of Down’s syndrome.

I’ve always called them “bright souls.” Not their fault they’ve got an extra chromosome. In every other way, they’re like us—better, even. They *never* treat *us* like idiots for having one *less* chromosome. And they *smile*—always. Not the fake grins most people wear while cursing you under their breath.

“Stunning. You’re a lucky man. If it’s what you want, I’ll hate losing you as an employee—but as your mate? Go be happy. If it’s alright, I’ll ring your mum, sort out the details, book your flights. Yeah?”

Oliver’s always been cheerful—but I’ve *never* seen him this chuffed. That look on his face? Worth every penny. He clapped like a kid, called his mum, handed me the phone. And *that’s* why I reckon autistic people are miles ahead of us—he left the room. Knew the chat was about him, but also knew I’d struggle talking *around* him. How many “normal” folk would do that? None—they’d hover, eavesdrop. But him? Tactful. Clever.

And why *shouldn’t* they be happy? They don’t lie, don’t scream—but they *do* love properly. So who’s really the clever one here?

Spoke to his mum—she knows the girl, no red flags. Tomorrow—well, *today* now—I’m driving them to Heathrow for an 11:25 flight to Stockholm. They’ll be happy. I’ll be happy *for* them. And if all goes well, I’m flying out in March to see him wed the most upbeat, brilliant bloke I’ve ever employed.

People like him? You don’t mind the time, the money, the effort—you just want them to have a good life. And then you look at the ones who mistake kindness for weakness, and realise they’re nothing. Zilch. But the good ones? *That’s* why the world’s still spinning.

Better put the kettle on—can’t nod off and miss that flight.