There was a man in our office. Not just any man—a grown bloke, 36 years old—but he wasn’t like the rest.

To put it plainly, he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. Not by a long shot. But I’d hired him six years ago, and never once regretted it. The interesting thing? He *knew* he wasn’t clever—never pretended otherwise. In fact, when he first came in for the job, the first words out of his mouth were:

*”Hello. I’m not smart, and I won’t pretend to be. But I need work—my mum can’t afford her medicine anymore.”*

That hit me like a ton of bricks. But I saw right then—he wasn’t lying. He wasn’t incapable, though. Just… different. He reminded me of Dustin Hoffman’s character in *Rain Man*, one of my favourite films. Something clicked, and I couldn’t bring myself to turn him away.

*”You’re still smarter than half the idiots out there pretending they’ve got it all figured out. Be here tomorrow.”*

From that day, he was like the office mascot. Six years, he worked just as hard as anyone. Different, yes—but honest, dependable, never late. In my book? Top of the bloody roster. He got his mum back on her feet after her stroke—though we all chipped in for her meds and physio—but the rest? All him. Never once complained. The whole team adored him, treated him like family. Loved him so much we practically fattened him up from 11 stone to nearly 16. Christ, we even started looking alike.

Anyway—two days ago, I walk into the office after being away for a bit, and my assistant hits me with it straight off:

*”George is quitting. You’ve got to talk him out of it—what are we supposed to do without him?”*

I was gobsmacked. Quitting? *Why?* Told her to send him in. Ten minutes later, he shuffles in, chin practically tucked into his chest. Won’t meet my eyes.

*”George. What’s going on? Something wrong? Someone giving you grief? Point ’em out—I’ll sack half this place if I have to.”*

*”No, no! Nothing like that. I love them all. It’s just… I… well…”*

*”Spit it out. Your mum alright?”*

*”Yeah, she’s fine. It’s just… I want to get married.”*

And then *I* froze like a dodgy iPhone. The question *how?* nearly slipped out—but who the hell was I to ask? He was as human as the rest of us. Still, something about it didn’t sit right.

*”Fair enough. I take it there’s a woman involved who feels the same?”*

*”Yeah! She’s been asking me to come live with her—in Sweden! Me *and* Mum. She loves us both!”*

Oh, *Christ*. Now I *really* didn’t like this. An autistic bloke—off to Sweden? With his mum? This was mental.

*”Must be something special, then.”*

*”She’s gorgeous! Red hair, and way smarter than me. Here, look—”*

And then he whips out an *iPhone 7*. Bloody hell. Years he’d clung to that ancient brick phone, refused to upgrade even when we got him a decent one. But *now*—a bloody iPhone? Before I could even ask, he’s blurting:

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

My brain was boiling. I braced myself for some bleach-blonde glamour shot—some Scandinavian Pamela Anderson wannabe. But the photo that popped up? Nearly knocked me sideways.

A redhead, sure. But with *that* look—the kind some call “Down’s syndrome.” I’ve always called them *sunshine people*. Not their fault they’ve got an extra chromosome. In every other way? Just like us. In some ways, *better*. They don’t treat *us* like morons for having one less. Honestly? Kinder souls you’ll never meet. Always smiling—real smiles, not the plastic grins people paste on while cursing you behind their teeth.

*”She’s lovely. You’re a lucky man. If it’s what you want—I won’t stop you. But let me talk to your mum first. Sort tickets, make sure it’s all above board. Alright?”*

George had always been cheerful. But the joy on his face then? Unreal. For *that* alone, I’d have booked him a ticket to Timbuktu. He clapped like a kid, dialled his mum, and—this is why I think autistics are *smarter* than the lot of us—handed me the phone and *left*. Knew I wouldn’t talk freely with him there. How many *normal* blokes would’ve done that? None. They’d hover, eavesdrop. But *him*? Tactful. Brilliant.

And why *shouldn’t* people like him be happy? Truth is, they’re *better* at it than we are. They don’t lie. Don’t scream. Just love—fully, fiercely.

So tell me—who’s the clever one?

P.S. Talked to his mum. Turns out she *knows* the girl. No red flags. So at 8 AM sharp, I’m driving George and his mum to Heathrow. Flight’s at 11:25—Stockholm-bound. They’ll be happy. And I’ll be happy *for* them.

Come March? If all goes well, I’ll be flying out to watch my best damn employee tie the knot.

People like him? You don’t think twice. Time, money, effort—whatever it takes to make their lives brighter. The rest? The ones who mistake kindness for weakness? They fade into nothing.

Good folk outnumber the rotten. Only reason this damn planet’s still spinning.

Now—better brew a vat of coffee. Can’t bloody well sleep through their send-off.