Tiny Amo lay on the wooden table, his small belly rising and falling with weak, restless breaths. His little hands opened and closed slowly, searching for comfort that wasn’t there yet. Every few seconds, a soft moan slipped from his mouth—long, tired, and filled with hunger he could no longer hide.
His eyes were half-closed, watery and pleading as he looked around for Mom. He wasn’t angry… just exhausted. Too hungry to cry loudly, too weak to wait patiently. His little lips puckered as if already reaching for the warm milk he needed so much.
Amo shifted his tiny body, trying to push himself up, but he was simply too tired. He let out another shaky moan, this one more heartbreaking than the last. The empty table around him suddenly felt too big, too cold, too lonely for such a fragile baby.
When Mom heard him, she rushed in with the bottle still warm in her hand. The moment Amo saw her, his eyes widened with relief. He lifted his trembling arms toward her—not in tantrum, but in silent pleading.
Mom scooped him up gently, whispering,
“Okay, okay, my little Amo… Mommy’s here.”
The instant the bottle touched his lips, Amo clung to it desperately, drinking fast as if afraid it might disappear. His moans slowly turned into soft hums of satisfaction, his body relaxing safely in Mom’s arms.
For the first time that morning, tiny Amo stopped trembling.
For the first time, he felt full, safe, and loved again.
Mom held him close, letting him finish every drop—
because no baby should ever have to moan that sadly from hunger.
