My 5-Year-Old Offered a Mailman a Glass of Water… The Next Day, a Red Bugatti Appeared

The heat that Tuesday was brutal. I sat on the porch with sweet tea while my five-year-old son, Eli, drew chalk dinosaurs on the driveway, his curls damp and cheeks flushed. “Mom,” he asked, squinting down the street, “why’s that man walking funny?” A mailman I didn’t recognize was slowly approaching, his uniform soaked with sweat, stopping often to catch his breath. Neighbors muttered cruel comments as he passed—about his age, his job, his life choices. Eli squeezed my hand. “Why are they being so mean?” he whispered.
“Some people forget to be kind,” I said.

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