Tiny Luna had only been in the home a few days. She was small, soft, and fragile—a premature rescue barely old enough to hold a bottle. Everyone adored her. Her big eyes, her gentle coos, the way she clung to fingers with her tiny hands.
But not Minea.
Minea had been the baby of the house before Luna came. Spoiled, loved, always in Mama’s arms. But now… now Mama spent more time with Luna—feeding her, wrapping her in warm towels, whispering soft words. Minea watched from the corner, jealousy growing in her chest like fire.
She tried to stay calm at first. But today, when Luna crawled near her soft blanket, Minea snapped.
With a loud screech, she lunged forward and chased Luna across the room. Luna stumbled, scared, her tiny legs too weak to run. She cried out in confusion—not understanding what she had done wrong.
Luna fled to the corner, shaking, eyes wide with fear. Minea stayed back, chest heaving, her eyes burning with something she didn’t even understand.
Mama rushed in, scooping Luna up in her arms. “Minea!” she gasped, shocked and heartbroken. “Why would you do that?”
Minea didn’t answer. She looked down at her feet, ashamed, confused, angry—and sad. She didn’t want to hurt Luna. She just wanted Mama to hold her again.
That night, Luna wouldn’t come out from under the blanket. And Minea sat alone, staring at her own reflection in the window, wondering why her heart felt so heavy.
Jealousy had made her mean.
