Every time the sun peeked through the curtains, little Chamroeun was already wide awake—his eyes full of energy, his belly full of demands. And this morning was no different.
From the corner of the room, a sudden scream pierced the quiet.
“EEHHH! EEEHHHH!!”
Mom dropped the dish in her hand, startled again.
Chamroeun was standing on his tiny legs, fists clenched, mouth wide open. He stomped the floor like a toddler throwing a tantrum. His message was loud and clear:
“I WANT MILK—NOW!”
Mom blinked, half laughing, half exasperated.
“You just ate an hour ago, baby!”
But Chamroeun didn’t care.
His dramatic cries only grew louder. He tugged at her clothes, stared straight into her eyes, and made the most pitiful moaning sounds as if the world had forgotten him.
His mom rushed to prepare the bottle, shaking it as fast as she could. Chamroeun stood tapping his foot on the floor like a grumpy little prince. The moment the milk touched his lips, the storm passed.
Silence. Peace. Bliss.
Chamroeun curled his toes in satisfaction, sucking the bottle while staring up at Mom as if to say, “Took you long enough.”
She sat down beside him, exhausted but smiling.
“You’re going to give me a heart attack one day.”
Chamroeun didn’t reply. His eyes were already drooping, his tiny belly full and round. He held the bottle tight, letting out a tiny satisfied grunt.
Even in his chaos, Mom adored every bit of him.
Because that’s what love is—surviving screams, shocks, and a whole lot of milk.
