NasTy little Yuri sat on the floor, eyes locked on the bright oranges in mom’s hands. The smell alone made her restless. Her stomach rumbled, her mouth watered, and patience vanished. When mom peeled too slowly, Yuri exploded into sharp screams, her voice loud with urgency and demand. To her, waiting felt unbearable.
She stomped her feet and waved her tiny arms, face scrunched with frustration. Every second felt stolen. She didn’t understand why mom’s fingers moved carefully, why the peel didn’t fall away instantly. Hunger mixed with habit, and habit turned into attitude. Yuri screamed again, louder this time, ordering the world to move faster.
Mom stayed calm. She didn’t rush, didn’t shout back. She peeled steadily, knowing Yuri’s anger wasn’t cruelty—it was need wrapped in impatience. Yuri crawled closer, grabbing at the orange, almost slipping on the peel scraps. Her screams cracked, turning into short, sharp cries, eyes glossy with desperation.
Mom finally separated the segments and held one up. Yuri froze. Silence fell. Her body leaned forward, anger dissolving into focus. She took the orange eagerly, stuffing it into her mouth, juice dripping down her chin. The screaming stopped instantly, replaced by loud chewing and satisfied grunts.
Mom wiped her face gently. Yuri didn’t protest. Her shoulders relaxed. The storm passed as quickly as it came. With each sweet bite, her mood softened, tail flicking happily now. She glanced up at mom, eyes calmer, almost sheepish, as if realizing she had overreacted.
When the orange was gone, Yuri reached for another piece, this time without screaming. Mom smiled and handed it slowly. Yuri waited—just a moment longer than before. It wasn’t perfect patience, but it was progress.
That afternoon, NasTy little Yuri learned a tiny lesson hidden inside a sweet orange: good things still come, even when waiting feels hard. And mom learned again that behind loud screams is often just hunger, love, and a small heart learning how to ask without shouting
