Little Tami had been rescued just weeks ago—frail, orphaned, and scared. Her new human mama, Mia, had nursed her back to life with warm bottles, gentle hands, and soft lullabies. Every moment since, Mia stayed close, never letting Tami out of her sight.
At first, Tami loved the warmth and safety. But now, she was stronger—and she wanted space.
One morning in the backyard, Tami tugged at Mia’s shirt and pointed toward a low tree branch. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. She wanted to climb. Just a little.
But Mia shook her head gently. “Not yet, sweet girl. You’re still healing.”
Tami’s face twisted with frustration. She stomped her little feet, gave a loud baby screech, and turned her back to Mia. Her small body shook with anger. She didn’t want to be babied anymore. She wanted freedom.
Mia sighed, heart aching. She knew Tami’s bones were still fragile. Just last week, she had slipped off the couch and cried for an hour. Letting her climb now felt too dangerous.
But Tami didn’t understand. She thought Mama was being mean, unfair. She refused to drink her bottle that afternoon, refused cuddles, even pushed Mia’s hand away.
The house felt heavy.
By evening, a chill set in. Tami shivered where she sulked by the door. Quietly, Mia walked over, wrapped her in a blanket, and sat down, letting Tami rest against her heart.
Tami didn’t fight it this time.
She was still angry—but also tired. And deep down, she knew: Mama’s arms were where she was safe.
Maybe one day she’d be allowed to climb that tree. But tonight, she just needed to be held.
