Tong was a little fireball—tiny, clever, and full of attitude. He had been rescued young, and ever since, the bottle had been his greatest comfort. Warm milk meant safety. It meant love. It meant Mama.
But today, Mama thought it was funny to tease.
As Tong clutched his bottle with both hands, drinking eagerly, Mama giggled and gently tugged it away. “Let me seeee, Tong! Is that my bottle?” she teased playfully.
Tong froze.
Then—snap.
His eyes darkened, and he let out a sharp baby screech. He clutched the bottle tightly, yanked it back with a dramatic huff, and spun his little body away from her. He sat in the corner with his back turned, bottle back in his mouth, pouting furiously.
Mama laughed softly, but when she saw his ears droop and his tail twitch in frustration, her smile faded. “Oh, baby,” she whispered, realizing her joke had hurt.
To Tong, the bottle wasn’t a toy. It was safety. His past had been filled with loss—no mother, no warmth, no guarantee of the next meal. Teasing him, even gently, felt like betrayal.
He finished his bottle but refused to look at her. Mama moved closer, reaching out slowly. Tong hesitated… then, after a long pause, climbed into her lap. He didn’t want to forgive her yet—but he still needed her arms.
“I’m sorry, Tong,” she whispered, rubbing his back. “No more teasing. I promise.”
He grumbled under his breath, still grumpy—but tucked his face into her shirt and let himself be held.
Some wounds aren’t deep—but they still matter.
