Minea had learned one powerful thing very early in life.
If she screamed loudly enough, Mom would come.
Every time hunger touched her belly, Minea didn’t wait. She screamed.
Not a soft cry. Not a warning sound.
A full, sharp, demanding scream that filled the house and echoed through the rooms.
Her tiny body stiffened, mouth wide open, eyes fierce with urgency.
Mom always heard her.
No matter what she was doing, Mom would hurry over with food or fruit in her hands. A banana. A piece of apple. Warm milk. Something comforting. Something quick. Minea would quiet instantly the moment she saw it, as if the scream had done its job perfectly.
And it had.
To Minea, screaming wasn’t bad behavior. It was communication.
It was certainty.
It was proof that she mattered.
But over time, Mom began to notice something. Minea screamed even when food was almost ready. Even when she wasn’t truly hungry. Sometimes she screamed just to make sure Mom stayed close, just to see her appear.
One afternoon, Mom paused. Minea screamed as usual, louder than ever. Mom didn’t rush immediately. She came calmly, knelt down, and looked into Minea’s eyes. She spoke gently, offering reassurance before offering food.
Minea screamed again, confused. This was different.
Mom stayed patient. She waited for Minea to breathe, to pause, to look back. When the screaming softened, Mom smiled and then gave her the fruit.
Something changed.
Slowly, Minea began to learn new ways to ask. Small sounds. Reaching hands. Eye contact. The screaming didn’t disappear overnight, but it softened.
Minea learned that Mom came not because of noise, but because of love.
And Mom learned that behind every scream was a need—not just for food, but for security.
Now, sometimes Minea still screams. She’s small. Learning takes time.
But more often, she looks first.
And Mom is already there.
