It was a warm afternoon when Mom decided to take little orphan Franka out for a walk around the village. Franka, barely a year old, clung tightly to Mom’s arm, his tiny frame trembling with every step. He had been with Mom for a few months now, but his insecurities from being an orphan still lingered, making him desperately attached to her.
As they strolled past the small village shop, Franka’s eyes lit up at the sight of a colorful box of milk on the shelf. He pointed to it excitedly, making soft cooing sounds. Mom chuckled and patted his head. “Not now, sweetie. Let’s go home first,” she said gently.
But Franka had other plans. The moment Mom tried to walk away, he burst into tears. His tiny body shook as he clung to her leg, crying loudly, his little hands gripping her skirt as though his life depended on it.
“Franka, what’s wrong?” Mom asked, kneeling down to comfort him. He pointed again to the milk box, his face red and tear-streaked.
Mom sighed, understanding his plea. “You’re not letting me go until you get that milk, huh?” she said with a smile. Franka nodded firmly, his sobs softening but his grip unwavering.
Relenting, Mom picked him up and walked back into the shop, grabbing the box of milk. Franka’s tears immediately stopped, replaced by a beaming smile. Holding the milk tightly in his tiny hands, he snuggled against Mom’s chest, his earlier distress forgotten.
As they headed home, Mom kissed his forehead. “You’re such a little troublemaker, Franka. But I’ll always make sure you feel safe and loved.”
