Milo was just a tiny bundle of fur, barely a month old, but his personality was already making itself known in a big way. Today, he lay sprawled on the bedding in the yard, his little chest heaving with sobs as he cried out in frustration. His mother had left him there, scampering into the kitchen to start cooking, but Milo didn’t understand why she couldn’t stay right next to him. The warmth of her presence, her comforting touch, was what he craved. And now, all he could think about was that she was gone, and he didn’t like it one bit.
Milo’s tiny fists curled up, gripping the edge of the blanket beneath him, his face scrunched in an expression that was the perfect picture of baby monkey rage. His cries, high-pitched and shrill, echoed across the yard, growing louder with each passing second. His little body wriggled, kicking at the air as if hoping to get someone’s attention. But no one came. The kitchen was out of sight, just beyond the yard’s boundary, and from where he lay, it felt like his mom was a world away.
The sun shone warmly overhead, casting light onto the greenery that surrounded Milo, but the beauty of the day was lost on him. All he could focus on was the absence of the familiar figure who was always there to hold him. His tiny, wrinkled face contorted with emotion, his bottom lip trembling as tears rolled down his cheeks. His tiny body arched as if in protest, throwing a tantrum that only grew more desperate. It wasn’t just that she’d left him; it was the sheer injustice of it in his little mind.
Milo’s crying took on a rhythm of its own — loud bursts of wails followed by moments of quieter sobbing as he caught his breath. He flailed his arms in the air, his fingers grasping at nothing, reaching out for someone to hold him, to pick him up and soothe the storm raging inside him. The more he thought about his mom being in the kitchen, doing something that didn’t involve him, the angrier he got. It was as if his tiny heart couldn’t bear the separation for even a few minutes.
The blanket beneath him rustled as he twisted from side to side, his energy unspent and his frustration mounting. His small tail flicked behind him in agitation, curling and uncurling as though it, too, was expressing his displeasure. He was furious, and the intensity of his emotions seemed too much for such a small body to handle. How could she just leave him here while she did something so boring, so unimportant as cooking?
Occasionally, Milo would pause, listening intently, hoping to hear the sound of footsteps approaching, the familiar rustle of movement that signaled his mom’s return. But each time there was nothing, no sign that she was coming back just yet. His little face would crumple once again, and the cycle of crying would continue, more intense than before, his voice now hoarse from the effort.
From the kitchen, his mother likely knew full well what was happening in the yard, but this was a part of learning — for both of them. Milo needed to learn that his cries wouldn’t always bring immediate attention, that sometimes, she would have to step away, even if just for a moment. But to baby Milo, none of that mattered. All he knew was the intense, overwhelming feeling of being left behind, and his baby mind couldn’t grasp the concept of “coming back.”
Finally, after what felt like an eternity to Milo, there was a shift in the air. The faint sound of footsteps coming from the kitchen caused him to quiet down, if only for a moment. His breath hitched as he listened, the sobs stifling themselves in anticipation. Was she coming back? His tiny body tensed as he waited. And then, she appeared. The moment he caught sight of her, a fresh wave of sobs erupted, but this time, they were mingled with relief. She was here. She had come back.
Milo’s little arms reached out toward her, his face wet with tears, his body exhausted from the outburst. As his mom approached, he whimpered, the anger melting away into pure need. All he wanted was to be scooped up, to feel her arms around him, and to know that everything was okay again.
