Shala cried before the bottle even appeared.
He knew the routine, and he knew the sound.
Morning light touched the floor, and suddenly his patience vanished.
Tiny body stiff, face twisted, he screamed like the world had ended.
It was dramatic, loud, unstoppable.
Milk was late by seconds, and that felt unforgivable.
He rolled, kicked, slapped the rug, and wailed toward the door.
His cries echoed, demanding attention now, not later.
Everyone knew Shala was spoiled, but he was still a baby.
Hunger mixed with habit created a storm inside him.
He wanted arms, warmth, and milk all together.
Mom sighed softly, trying not to laugh or scold.
She moved slowly on purpose, teaching waiting without words.
Shala cried harder, convinced louder meant faster.
Tears soaked his cheeks, chest heaving with effort.
To him, this was survival, not acting.
When the bottle finally appeared, Shala froze.
His scream cut off mid breath.
Eyes wide, he reached, suddenly quiet.
Milk touched his lips, and peace rushed in.
His body melted, tantrum forgotten, trust restored.
Mom held him close while he drank greedily.
She rubbed his back, steady and calm.
Shala slowed, blinking, embarrassed by nothing.
Soon only small gulps and soft sighs remained.
After, he rested full and sleepy, drama gone.
Mom smiled, knowing this would happen again.
Shala wasn’t bad, just deeply loved.
Spoiled meant safe, heard, and never ignored.
In his world, milk meant comfort, and comfort meant life.
Tomorrow he would cry again, just as fiercely.
And she would still come, every single time.
Love always answers hungry hearts
