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When the mailman reached us, his voice was dry and shaky as he handed me the mail. Before I could respond, Eli ran inside. Seconds later, he returned with his Paw Patrol cup filled with cold water and one of his prized chocolate bars.
“Here,” Eli said. “You look really thirsty.”
The man’s eyes filled as he drank, then crouched down. “What’s your name, champ?”
“Eli. I go to Sunshine Preschool.”
“You just made my whole day,” the man said softly before thanking us and moving on.
That night, Eli drew a picture of a mailman with angel wings and labeled it: My Hero. The next afternoon, outside Eli’s preschool, a red Bugatti rolled to the curb. Out stepped the same man—no uniform, wearing a crisp white suit. He knelt beside Eli and handed him a small red toy car. “Thank you for yesterday.” He explained he was a successful businessman who, once a year, walked a mail route to remember his roots. Eli’s kindness, he said, meant more than any handshake ever had.
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