Judie’s cries tore through the room, sharp and relentless, bouncing off walls and hearts alike. She was tiny, furious, and hungry, sitting rigid with her fists clenched, eyes blazing with tears. Every second without milk felt like betrayal. She screamed toward the caregiver, voice cracking, demanding answers she could not form. Her body shook with effort, anger mixing with fear.
The caregiver moved nearby, preparing the bottle, trying to stay calm. To Judie, calm looked like delay. She arched her back, kicked the mat, and wailed louder, checking constantly to see if help was truly coming. Her cries weren’t just noise; they were language, saying she needed care now, not later.
Other sounds faded as Judie’s emotions took over. She hiccupped between screams, breath uneven, cheeks flushed. Hunger sharpened everything. She reached out, missed, then cried harder, convinced she had been forgotten. The caregiver spoke softly, explaining, but Judie only understood tone, not words.
At last, the bottle appeared. Judie froze mid-cry, stunned, then lunged with urgency. The first sip changed everything. Her shoulders dropped. Her hands loosened. Anger melted into desperate sucking, eyes half closing in relief. The room exhaled with her.
She drank greedily, still clutching the bottle as if it might disappear again. The caregiver held her close, steady and warm, whispering reassurance. Judie slowed, milk dribbling at her lip, breaths evening out.
When she finished, she didn’t scream. She sighed. Her head rested against a chest, exhaustion replacing fury. The storm had passed. Judie learned, slowly, that care sometimes takes moments to arrive, but it does arrive. Love answered her anger with patience, and hunger with comfort, teaching trust one feeding at a time. Tonight she slept safely, belly full, eyes calm, wrapped in warmth, learning waiting hurts, but love never leaves her alone again ever.
