A Tong was already tired when the room suddenly changed. One moment he was close to Mom, breathing her familiar scent, and the next she stepped away. Fear rushed through his small body like cold water. His eyes widened, and a sharp cry burst from his throat before he could stop it. He shouted, trembling, arms reaching, terrified that Mom was getting out of him forever.
His voice echoed with panic, not anger. Each cry sounded like a question he could not ask: why are you leaving, where are you going, will you come back. His legs stiffened, and his hands clutched the air, searching for her warmth. When she moved farther, A Tong shook harder, breath breaking, heart racing wildly.
Caregivers stayed near, trying to reassure him, but A Tong barely noticed. To him, only Mom mattered. Her distance felt enormous, even if it was only a few steps. His cries grew louder, cracked with fear, body curling inward as if to protect his heart. Tears soaked his cheeks, and his small chest heaved with effort.
Mom heard the fear instantly. She stopped, turned, and knelt down to his level. A Tong screamed one last time, a desperate sound full of pain and relief mixed together. When she opened her arms, he lunged forward without hesitation.
The moment Mom held him again, his shouting collapsed into sobs. His body melted against her, shaking slowly less and less. Her hand rubbed his back, steady and calm, telling him without words that she was still there. A Tong sniffed, clinging tightly, afraid to loosen his grip.
Safe again, his cries faded. The fear passed, leaving only exhaustion and trust. A Tong learned something important in that moment. Even when Mom steps away, she always comes back. He believes her now completely.
