ATong woke with an ache in his chest, the kind that comes before tears. The room felt too big, too empty, and he reached out without thinking. When Mom stood up to leave, his small hands shot forward, gripping her shirt as if it were the last safe thing in the world.
He didn’t cry loudly at first. He pressed his face against her, breathing fast, eyes wet. His body wrapped around her leg, refusing to loosen. Each step she tried to take pulled a whimper from his throat. To ATong, leaving meant disappearing, and disappearing meant losing everything familiar.
Mom knelt and spoke softly, promising she would return. Words helped a little, but not enough. ATong shook his head, clinging tighter, his sadness heavy. He followed her movements with desperate focus, afraid to blink in case she vanished.
She lifted him gently. His arms locked around her neck, cheek pressed to skin, heart racing against hers. The clinginess wasn’t stubbornness. It was love mixed with fear, attachment built from trust that felt fragile today.
Mom stayed still, rocking slowly. She breathed with him, counting each rise and fall until his sobs softened. The world slowed. The room felt smaller again, safer.
After a while, ATong relaxed just enough to look at her face. He studied her eyes, searching for truth. She smiled and kissed his forehead, staying present.
Eventually, she set him down nearby, still within reach. ATong didn’t cling this time. He watched carefully, fingers ready, but calmer. He learned that staying close didn’t always mean holding tight.
Some days, babies need arms. Today, ATong needed reassurance more than space. And Mom understood that love means staying until fear lets go and trust settles back into the heart.
