Ronaldo sat on the cool floor, his tiny hands clenched into fists, chest rising fast with sharp breaths. Without warning, a loud cry burst from his mouth, echoing through the room like a broken call for help. His mom froze, surprised, because nothing had happened. Ronaldo had just been fed, hugged, and placed gently down. Yet his tears flowed endlessly, soaking his soft fur and trembling lips.
He rolled onto his back, kicking the air angrily, crying louder as if the world had suddenly betrayed him. His eyes searched for his mother, full of confusion and demand, wanting comfort even though it was already there. Mom knelt beside him, speaking softly, her voice calm and warm, but Ronaldo screamed harder, refusing to listen.
She reached out, stroking his belly, offering her arms, but he turned his face away, crying in dramatic protest. This tantrum was not from hunger, not from pain, but from the deep attachment in his tiny heart. Ronaldo wanted to be held every second, to feel his mother’s heartbeat, to know she would never leave.
Minutes passed. His cries slowly weakened, turning into soft whimpers. Mom finally lifted him into her arms, holding him close against her chest. Instantly, his body relaxed. The anger faded. His fingers curled into her shirt, gripping tightly as if afraid she might disappear again.
Ronaldo sniffled, resting his head on her shoulder. The storm inside him quieted. Mom sighed gently, kissing his forehead with patience and love. She understood now—this was not bad behavior, but fear wrapped in emotion.
In her arms, Ronaldo felt safe again. His eyes closed slowly, tears drying on his cheeks. The tantrum ended, leaving behind a lesson of love: even spoiled cries come from a heart that only wants to be close, always close.
