Tiny Lyka sat on her mom’s lap, unusually quiet.
Earlier that day, while playing near the basket, she had slipped and bumped her mouth on the wooden edge. It left a small but painful wound on her lower lip. The moment it happened, she cried sharply — not just from the pain, but from fear.
Mom rushed over instantly, scooping her up with worried eyes.
Now, in the soft morning light, it was time to treat the wound. Mom had a little cotton bud dipped in Betadine, the medicine that always smelled strange to Lyka. She wrinkled her nose as Mom gently held her tiny face.
“No, no,” Lyka whimpered, her eyes wide.
But Mom shushed her sweetly, stroking her head with one hand and holding the cotton with the other.
“This will help, little one,” her touch seemed to say.
The moment the cool Betadine touched her lip, Lyka flinched. Her tiny hands waved in protest, but Mom held her carefully — not too tight, just enough to keep her safe.
“It’s okay… just a little more,” Mom whispered, kissing her forehead.
Lyka whimpered again but didn’t cry this time. She was trying to be strong.
And when it was over, Mom blew gently on her lip, then scooped her into a warm hug. Lyka nestled into her chest, comforted by the familiar scent and heartbeat.
The sting was fading. What remained was Mom’s love — deeper than any pain.
Later, Lyka would bounce again, play again, and probably find new adventures. But for now, she lay safe in the arms of the one who always made things better.
Because when Mom cares for her, even medicine feels like love. 🐵🩷🍃
