Baby Mason was wrapped in a soft cloth, resting quietly after finishing his milk. At first, everything seemed normal. His tiny hands relaxed, and his eyes slowly blinked as if sleep was coming. But only moments later, his small body tensed. A weak sound escaped his throat, and suddenly, the milk came back up again.
It wasn’t the first time. Mason had been vomiting after almost every feeding, and each time it left him weaker than before. His little belly looked uncomfortable, rising and falling unevenly. He didn’t cry loudly. Instead, he whimpered softly, as if he no longer had the strength to protest.
Mom reacted quickly, lifting him upright and gently patting his back. Warm milk dribbled down his chin, and she carefully wiped his mouth with a clean cloth. Mason’s eyes looked watery and tired, filled with confusion. He was hungry, but his body couldn’t handle the milk he needed so badly.
After vomiting, Mason always looked drained. His head drooped forward, and his arms hung loosely at his sides. The playful energy he once had was gone, replaced by fragile stillness. Each feeding felt like a battle between survival and exhaustion.
Mom held him close to her chest, listening to his breathing, counting every rise and fall. She worried deeply, knowing that milk was his only source of strength. She adjusted the feeding slowly—smaller amounts, gentler pacing—hoping his tiny stomach could cope.
Mason nestled into her warmth, clinging weakly to her finger. Even in discomfort, he trusted her completely. That trust broke her heart and strengthened her resolve at the same time.
As time passed, the vomiting slowed, but the fear remained. Mom stayed beside him, refusing to leave him alone even for a moment. She whispered softly, promising him he was safe, that she was there.
Mason’s breathing steadied. His eyes finally closed, not in hunger, but in exhaustion. Though his body was struggling, he was surrounded by care and love. And for this fragile little monkey, that love was the strongest medicine of all.
