In the warm afternoon light, tiny newborn BeBe sat quietly on the wooden table in the yard. Her small, fragile body looked even smaller against the wide surface, but her eyes were alert, scanning every direction. She knew Mom would come soon — and with her, the precious bottle of milk BeBe had been dreaming about all morning.
At first, she tried to be patient. She played with her tiny fingers, shifting her little feet on the table. The sounds of the yard surrounded her — leaves rustling, a bird chirping nearby, the distant hum of people passing. But the emptiness in her tummy grew stronger, and her patience began to fade.
She let out a small cry, then another, louder this time. Her soft whimpers turned into urgent calls, her gaze fixed on the doorway, waiting for that familiar figure to appear. The table felt big and lonely, but she stayed put — because she knew milk was worth the wait.
Finally, Mom appeared, carrying the bottle. BeBe’s whole body seemed to brighten. She wiggled in excitement, her eyes wide and focused only on the warm, delicious promise in Mom’s hands.
Mom sat beside her, gently lifting her into her arms. The moment the bottle touched her lips, BeBe’s cries stopped. She drank eagerly, the taste and warmth filling her belly and heart with comfort.
When the last drop was gone, BeBe gave a tiny satisfied sigh, resting her head against Mom. The yard felt safe, the table no longer lonely — because Mom was here, and her hunger was just a memory.
