Yuri cried softly at first, then louder, his tiny voice shaking as he sat on the bed alone. The blanket felt too big. The room felt too quiet. His small hands clutched the edge of the mattress as tears rolled down his cheeks. He didn’t understand why mom had stepped away, only that her warmth was suddenly gone.
“Mom… don’t go…” his crying seemed to say.
Yuri lay down, then quickly sat back up, panic filling his eyes. Being alone on the bed made his chest feel tight. Every sound felt strange, every shadow unfamiliar. He remembered being held, being close, feeling safe. Now the space beside him was empty, and that emptiness hurt more than hunger.
Mom heard his cries immediately. Each sob struck her heart. From the doorway, she watched Yuri reach out toward the air, his fingers opening and closing as if trying to grab her. He cried harder, turning his face into the pillow, his shoulders trembling with fear. He wasn’t being naughty. He was scared.
Mom walked back slowly and sat beside him. Yuri noticed at once. His crying changed, becoming urgent, desperate. He crawled toward her, pressing his face against her arm, still sobbing as if afraid she might disappear again. Mom gently stroked his head, whispering calming sounds.
“I’m here,” her touch promised.
Yuri clung tightly, refusing to let go. His crying slowly faded into soft hiccups. His breathing steadied. He stayed close, resting his head on mom’s chest, listening to her heartbeat. The bed no longer felt lonely. The room no longer felt cold.
Mom stayed with him, not rushing away again. She understood now. Yuri didn’t need toys or food in that moment. He needed reassurance. He needed presence.
As his eyes slowly closed, Yuri relaxed completely, his small body heavy with sleep. One tiny hand still held mom’s shirt, just in case. That night, Yuri learned something important.
Being brave didn’t mean being alone.
Feeling safe meant knowing mom would always come back.
