Lil ATong paced in small circles, hunger buzzing louder than his voice.
Mom stood nearby, chatting softly, explaining, smiling, delaying.
To ATong, every word felt like time stolen from his empty belly.
He yelled, sharp and demanding, tiny hands waving like alarms.
His stomach growled; his patience vanished.
Why talk when milk was waiting?
He stomped, cried, and stared at the bottle, accusing it of hiding comfort.
Mom tried to soothe him with gentle chatter.
She explained warming, measuring, being careful.
ATong didn’t hear care; he heard waiting.
His cries grew louder, cracking with desperation and hurt.
He remembered mornings when food came fast, when relief arrived before tears.
Today felt unfair.
He felt ignored, even though Mom’s eyes never left him.
Babies measure love in seconds, not intentions.
Finally, Mom knelt, meeting his gaze.
She stopped talking.
Silence felt like respect.
She lifted him close, letting him feel her steady breathing.
ATong clung tightly, still crying, but slower now.
The bottle was ready.
Those last moments stretched painfully long.
ATong yelled once more, then paused, trusting.
When the nipple touched his lips, the storm ended.
He drank greedily, sighing between gulps.
His body softened, anger draining away.
Mom held him quietly, no speeches, only presence.
Finished, ATong rested against her chest, exhausted and full.
He didn’t need explanations anymore.
He needed timing, warmth, and action.
Mom kissed his head, learning too.
Sometimes love means fewer words and faster answers.
ATong slept, hunger gone, heart calm again.
Tomorrow, waiting might still be hard.
But tonight, understanding fed them both.
Outside, the house grew quiet, holding their lesson gently.
Hunger teaches urgency; care teaches listening.
Together they learned balance, patience meeting need, voices softening sooner, meals arriving quicker, trust deepening with every shared breath before night wrapped them both in rest.
