The heat that Tuesday was relentless, the kind that clings to your skin and makes even standing still feel exhausting. I sat on the porch sipping sweet tea while Eli covered the driveway in chalk dinosaurs, his curls damp with sweat and his cheeks flushed pink.
“Mom,” he said suddenly, squinting down the street, “why is that man walking like that?”
A mail carrier I didn’t recognize was moving slowly toward our house. His uniform was soaked through, his bag sagged heavily at his side, and every few steps he stopped to brace himself, one hand pressed into his lower back.
“He’s just tired, sweetheart,” I replied. “It’s really hot today.”
But Eli kept watching, quiet and serious in that way that makes a five-year-old seem much older.
Across the street, voices drifted over.
“I’d never let my husband work like that at his age,” Mrs. Lewis muttered. “It’s embarrassing.”
“He looks like he’s about to collapse,” her friend added. “Someone should call for help.”
From two houses down, Mr. Campbell shouted, “Better hurry up, pal! Mail won’t deliver itself.”
A group of teens rode past on bikes, laughing. “Guess he didn’t plan for retirement,” one of them said.
“My dad says people like that made bad choices,” another chimed in.
Eli slipped his hand into mine. “Mom, why are they being mean? He’s just doing his job.”
I swallowed. “Sometimes people forget how to be kind.”
By the time the mailman reached us, his breathing was shallow. “Afternoon, ma’am,” he said, forcing a smile. “Got your electric bill and a few catalogs.” His hands shook as he sorted the mail.
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