Selena screamed the moment the pacifier left her hands. Confusion flashed across her tiny face, then anger rose fast and loud. Her cry sliced the air as she kicked and twisted, searching for comfort that had suddenly vanished. Mom held the pacifier gently, trying to explain with calm words and slow movements, but Selena only knew loss.
She reached out, fingers grasping at nothing, eyes wide and wet. The room felt too big, the light too bright. Her scream wasn’t just noise; it was a question. Why now? Why take the one thing that made her feel safe? She stamped her feet, back arching, tail flicking, emotions spilling without order.
Mom knelt close, steady and patient. She didn’t scold. She waited for a breath between cries, offering touch instead of the pacifier. Selena resisted at first, turning away, voice hoarse with protest. Anger mixed with fear, because change felt like danger to a small heart.
Minutes passed slowly. Mom showed the pacifier again, then set it aside, pointing to warm milk and a soft blanket. She whispered reassurance, letting silence work. Selena’s screams softened into sharp sobs. Her chest rose and fell unevenly as she watched, thinking, deciding.
Finally, she leaned forward, resting against mom’s arm. The crying faded to hiccups. Mom rubbed her back in slow circles, grounding her breath. The pacifier was gone, but comfort remained. Trust began to replace confusion.
Later, Selena sat quietly, eyes tired, hands busy with the blanket’s edge. She hadn’t won the battle, but she had survived it. Learning doesn’t arrive gently; it arrives through feelings felt fully. That day, Selena learned that even when comfort changes, love stays. And love, patient and close, can quiet storms better than anything else. Held, heard, and safe, Selena breathed easier, trusting tomorrow would be kinder
