What finally convinced Ella to pick up her mess?

She didn’t sleep on it and awake contrite and reasonable.

She wasn’t motivated by the prospect of losing her bike riding privilege today, or by time out, or even by delaying her ritualistic morning cup of milk.

Trish told her, “you can’t go to the post office unless you pick up your mess.”

Ahhhh. The siren song of sorting and stamping, the sweet allure of stale and musty packages, the reverent uniforms. The chance that perhaps one of those packages might be, could possibly, wouldn’t be surprised if it were a happy. For Ella.

“She didn’t even hesitate,” Trish said.

All hail the USPS! Long live the postmaster general!

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