Ronaldo curled himself near the door, his small body pressed against the cool floor as morning light slipped through the cracks. Ever since mom left for the market, he had stayed there, refusing to move, as if guarding the place where she disappeared. Each sound outside made his head lift with hope—then fall again in disappointment.
He cried loudly, calling out in broken, desperate sounds that echoed through the house. His eyes stayed fixed on the door, wet with tears, searching for a familiar shadow. To him, morning felt endless without her. Time moved too slowly when comfort was gone.
Ronaldo reached toward the door, touching it softly, then banged it with his tiny hand when it didn’t open. His cries grew sharper, anger mixing with sadness. Why hadn’t she come back yet? Had she forgotten him? These thoughts lived in his cries, even if he couldn’t name them.
He hid his face briefly, then peeked again, wiping tears with the back of his hand. His chest rose and fell quickly as he screamed louder, hoping his voice might reach her at the market. Every passing step outside made his heart race.
Caregivers tried to distract him, but Ronaldo pushed away toys and turned back to the door. Nothing mattered except waiting. His loyalty stayed rooted in that one spot.
Finally, footsteps approached—familiar ones. The door opened. Ronaldo froze, then burst into louder cries, half pain, half relief. He ran forward, stumbling, arms reaching wide.
Mom scooped him up instantly. Ronaldo clung tightly, sobbing into her shoulder, as if afraid she might vanish again. His crying slowly softened, replaced by shaky breaths.
The wait was over. Ronaldo had not been forgotten. He had simply loved too deeply for such a small heart to handle waiting alone.
