I’m a mailman. Same route for seventeen years. Know everyone. Every house. This elderly woman’s mail started piling up. Day one, figured she was out of town. Day two, concerned. Day three, I knocked. No answer. Door was unlocked. Found her on the bathroom floor. Fallen. Been there since yesterday. Couldn’t reach her phone. Called 911. Stayed with her until paramedics came. Held her hand. “You’re going to be okay, Mrs. Bennett.” She squeezed my hand. “My son lives in California. Never calls. I have nobody.” Hospital kept her a week. I visited every day after my route. Brought flowers. Magazines. Just sat with her.

When she got home, I started checking on her. Every day. Quick knock. “You okay today, Mrs. Bennett?” Became our routine. Other people on my route noticed. Started helping too. Neighbor at 47 mowed her lawn. Woman at 52 brought dinner once a week. Mrs. Bennett’s house became a neighborhood thing. Everyone watching out for her. She lived three more years. Happy ones. Surrounded by people who cared. When she passed, her lawyer called me. She’d left me eight thousand dollars. Letter with it said, “You saved me that day. But you saved me every day after by making me feel seen.”

Used that money to start something. Mail carriers checking on elderly folks living alone. Quick wellness visits. We call it the Daily Check-In. Expanded to four routes now. We’ve found nine people in medical emergencies. Prevented two suicides. One house fire. All because Mrs. Bennett taught me that delivering mail sometimes means delivering hope.

—Michael Thompson, postal worker, Wisconsin​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​