Mom’s hands trembled as she prepared the Betadine, her eyes never leaving Selena’s tiny belly. The wound looked small, but to a mother, even the smallest injury felt terrifying. Selena whimpered softly, sensing the worry in the air. She lay still, breathing fast, trusting without understanding what was about to happen.
Mom whispered Selena’s name again and again, her voice shaking more than the bottle in her hand. She cleaned her own fingers first, then gently parted the fur around the wound. The smell of medicine filled the room. Selena cried, not loudly, but with a thin, painful sound that pierced Mom’s heart. Every cry felt like a question: Why does this hurt?
When the Betadine touched her belly, Selena flinched and squeaked, body tightening in fear. Mom immediately slowed down, using the lightest touch possible. Tears filled her eyes as she apologized over and over, even though Selena could not understand the words. She only understood the warmth of Mom’s hands and the softness of her voice.
Mom worked carefully, cleaning the wound, dabbing instead of rubbing, stopping whenever Selena trembled. Her heart raced with worry. What if it got infected? What if she was too late? Fear crowded her thoughts, but she forced herself to stay calm. Selena needed steadiness, not panic.
Slowly, the cleaning was done. Mom wrapped Selena gently, holding her close against her chest. Selena cried weakly, then rested her head there, listening to Mom’s heartbeat. The sound soothed her. Her breathing slowed.
Mom kissed Selena’s forehead, relief and fear mixing together. She promised silently to watch her every moment, to protect her better, to never take her eyes away again.
In that quiet embrace, Selena felt safe. And Mom learned that love sometimes means doing painful things gently, bravely, and with a heart full of worry.
