Yuri’s world collapsed in one dramatic moment. She stood frozen, eyes burning, chest tight, watching Mom hold Minea close. Minea was calm, quiet, resting safely in Mom’s arms. To Yuri, it felt like betrayal.
She didn’t understand why Minea wasn’t taken away.
Yuri’s face twisted with anger and hurt. Her small hands clenched, her body shaking as emotions exploded inside her. She screamed loudly, her cry sharp and accusing, as if shouting, Why not me? Why her? Tears poured down her cheeks, but the anger stayed stronger than the sadness.
Mom tried to speak gently, but Yuri turned her head away, screaming again. In her mind, love felt divided. If Minea stayed, then maybe there was less love left for her. That thought hurt more than anything. Yuri stomped, slapped the floor, and cried harder, acting fierce, dramatic, and defiant.
“I hate you,” her cries seemed to say, though her heart meant something very different.
Mom didn’t leave. She didn’t scold. She didn’t push Minea away either. Instead, she sat down slowly, bringing both girls closer. Minea stayed in one arm. The other arm reached out, open, waiting for Yuri.
Yuri screamed again, but her voice cracked. The anger was heavy, exhausting. She wanted to resist, but she also wanted comfort. Her body leaned forward before her pride could stop her. When Mom finally pulled her close, Yuri broke down completely.
She sobbed hard, burying her face against Mom’s shoulder.
Mom held both babies tightly, rocking them together. She whispered softly, reassuring Yuri again and again. Love wasn’t being taken away. It was being shared.
Yuri’s cries slowly softened. Her anger faded into quiet hiccups. She stayed close, still dramatic, still emotional, but no longer alone.
In that moment, Yuri learned a painful but important truth. Love doesn’t disappear when it’s given to someone else. It grows.
And even when jealousy screams louder than reason, a mother’s arms stay wide enough for every hurting heart.
