Bunny sat quietly, her tiny fingers curled near her mouth, doing the one thing that always made her feel safe. Sucking her finger was her comfort, her habit, her way of calming the world. But today, dad gently slid soft gloves onto her little hands to stop her. He meant well. He wanted to protect her. Bunny didn’t understand any of that.
The moment she realized she couldn’t reach her fingers, her eyes widened in shock. She tried once, then again, pressing the glove to her lips. Nothing felt right. Her face scrunched up, and suddenly she burst into loud, upset cries. To Bunny, it felt like something precious had been stolen.
She shook her hands angrily, staring at the gloves as if they were the enemy. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she cried harder, voice breaking with frustration and sadness. She kicked her feet, twisting her body, desperately trying to free her fingers. Each failed attempt made her cry louder.
Dad stayed close, speaking softly, rubbing her back, trying to soothe her. But Bunny wasn’t ready to be comforted. She cried from her chest, calling out with a sound full of protest and confusion. Why would dad stop her from the one thing that made her feel calm?
Her tiny body trembled as emotions overflowed. She leaned toward dad, then pulled away, torn between wanting comfort and feeling betrayed. The gloves felt strange, foreign, wrong. She didn’t know about hygiene or habits. She only knew that her comfort was gone.
Slowly, dad lifted her into his arms. Bunny cried hard against his chest, soaking his shirt with tears. He held her gently, rocking back and forth, letting her feelings spill out. After a long moment, her cries softened into hiccups.
She rested her head on his shoulder, still upset, still sad, but no longer alone. Bunny wasn’t being naughty. She was learning that growing up sometimes means losing small comforts. And in dad’s arms, she learned something else too—love stays, even when comfort changes.
