Baby Ricky woke before the sun, tummy aching with sharp hunger. He lay curled on the mat, fingers twitching, nose wrinkling as he searched for comfort. When no bottle came, his face tightened and a cry burst out, loud and pleading. The sound filled the room, bouncing off walls, telling everyone exactly what he needed for breakfast.
Ricky’s cries grew stronger. He kicked his legs and reached upward, mouth opening and closing in desperate rhythm. Hunger felt scary at this hour, when the world was quiet and shadows felt big. He believed milk should come the moment he asked, and waiting made his heart race. Tears rolled down his cheeks, soaking his soft fur as he called again.
Mom hurried in, hair still messy, eyes full of concern. She lifted Ricky close, feeling his tiny body shake. She whispered gently, rocking him while warming the milk. Ricky cried harder at first, afraid the bottle might not return. He sniffed the air, smelling breakfast, which made patience even harder.
Finally, the bottle touched his lips. Ricky latched on instantly, crying stopped mid-sound. His body softened as warm milk flowed. He drank fast, hands gripping tight, making sure it was real. Each swallow eased the ache inside him. His breathing slowed, eyes blinking sleepily.
Mom held him steady, humming softly. Ricky drank slower now, comfort replacing panic. When the bottle emptied, he didn’t scream. He sighed, a small sound of relief, and rested his head against her arm.
Morning light crept in as Ricky settled, full and calm. Hunger had passed, replaced by trust. Breakfast had come. Love had answered. And in that quiet moment, Ricky felt safe enough to drift back into gentle happiness.
He smiled faintly, dreaming of warm mornings, steady arms, full bottles, patience, kindness, and always being heard.
