Jealousy crept into Yuri’s chest during lunchtime, quiet at first, then loud enough to stop her chewing. Food rested in her mouth, untouched, as her eyes followed Minea every second. Minea sat close to mom, tiny hands smearing banana mash, laughing softly. Yuri’s stomach was hungry, but her heart was afraid.
She froze with a half bite, staring. What if Minea took her place? What if mom’s arms stayed busy? Yuri’s jaw tightened. The sweetness turned to worry. She swallowed nothing and pushed the food away, whimpering. Her tail flicked sharply, a warning of feelings she couldn’t name.
Mom noticed. She paused feeding Minea and looked at Yuri with gentle understanding. Jealousy wasn’t anger; it was fear of losing love. Yuri’s breathing grew fast, eyes shiny, body leaning away from the bowl as if eating meant accepting distance.
Mom shifted closer. With one arm she steadied Minea, with the other she reached for Yuri, touching her shoulder softly. Yuri flinched, then leaned in. The food was offered again, slowly, patiently. Yuri shook her head. She wanted reassurance before nourishment.
Mom spoke softly, showing Yuri there was room for both. She let Yuri sit nearer, sharing space, sharing warmth. Minea giggled, unaware, smearing a little mash on Yuri’s arm. Yuri startled, then relaxed. The fear loosened.
Yuri took a small bite. Then another. Her chewing returned, careful but steady. Her eyes kept checking mom’s face, checking Minea’s hands, counting moments of closeness. Each swallow came with relief.
By the end of lunch, jealousy had softened into calm. Yuri finished her food, pressed against mom, accepting that love does not divide; it multiplies. Minea finished too, sleepy and content.
Lunchtime taught Yuri a quiet truth. Sharing attention does not mean losing it. Love stays, even when it is shared. Forever, for everyone.
