Tiny Tamo was just a baby—so small he could fit in two palms, with a face full of innocence and emotions far too big for his little heart.
It was supposed to be a short moment.
Mom had gently placed him on a soft blanket inside a rolling cart so she could quickly clean his space. She thought he’d be safe, comfortable, and maybe even entertained by the motion.
But to Tamo, it felt like abandonment.
The cart rocked slightly, and suddenly the big world around him seemed even bigger. No warm arms. No chest to cling to. No heartbeat near his ear.
His wide eyes filled with panic.
“Eeeeh! EEEEH!!”
His tiny hands grabbed the metal sides of the cart, his face twisted in fear, and he began to cry loudly—a scared, angry, desperate cry. He didn’t understand why he’d been left there, or when she’d come back.
Mom turned at the sound, her heart breaking. She rushed to him, but Tamo had already puffed up in full dramatic mode. He slapped the side of the cart and squeaked furiously, cheeks red, tail twitching.
He was mad.
And hurt.
And too little to know she’d never truly leave him.
She scooped him up instantly, pressing his tiny body to her chest. “Oh baby, I’m right here. I didn’t go far.”
Tamo clung tightly to her shirt, burying his face in her neck. His angry cries faded into soft sniffles. He didn’t care if the floor was clean. He only cared about feeling safe—and that meant being in Mom’s arms.
And in that moment, she knew…
Next time, the cart could wait.
