It was one of those summer afternoons when even the air felt tired. My five-year-old son, Eli, was outside drawing dinosaurs on the driveway while I sipped sweet tea on the porch. Down the street, an older mailman trudged slowly under the blazing sun, his uniform dark with sweat. Our neighbors watched, some whispering and laughing, but Eli just frowned.
“Mom,” he asked softly, “why’s everyone being mean to him?” Before I could answer, he ran inside and came back with his Paw Patrol cup filled with ice water and one of his favorite chocolate bars. “Here, mister,” he said, handing it over. “You look really thirsty.”
