It was a sunny afternoon, and the trio of little monkeys—Sara, Harry, and their youngest sibling, baby Emma—were eagerly awaiting their milk treat. Their mom, with all her patience and care, was in the corner of the room preparing milk bottles. The warm aroma of milk filled the air, and the little ones began to stir with excitement. Mom placed baby Emma, who was barely two months old, in a cozy wicker basket lined with a soft cloth. Emma was a quiet and delicate soul, her big, innocent eyes following her mom’s movements as if sensing the delicious treat to come. She lay comfortably, sucking on her tiny fingers, completely unaware of the impending drama.
On the other side of the room, Sara and Harry sat on the small food table. Sara, at one year old, had grown into a calm and understanding little girl. She waited patiently, her dark eyes watching her mom with a sense of trust and maturity. Sara’s posture was upright, her hands folded neatly in her lap, setting an example for her younger brother.
Harry, on the other hand, was a storm in a tiny body. Barely six months old, he was a bundle of energy and mischief. As soon as he climbed onto the table, he began fidgeting, banging his tiny fists on the surface, and making it clear that waiting was not his strong suit.
“Harry, sit still,” Mom said firmly, glancing at him while mixing the warm milk. But Harry had other plans. He grabbed a spoon lying nearby and began to bang it noisily on the table, his little face scrunching up in defiance.
Sara gave him a disapproving look. “Harry, you’re being naughty,” she scolded softly, but Harry was beyond reasoning. His tiny tantrum escalated as he threw the spoon on the floor and began to stomp his little feet.
Mom turned around, her patience wearing thin. “Harry, enough! Sit quietly, or you won’t get your milk,” she said in a stern voice. The words stung Harry more than expected. He froze for a moment, then his face turned red with frustration. He let out an angry wail, jumped off the table, and stomped toward the basket where Emma lay.
Little Emma, oblivious to the brewing storm, blinked curiously as Harry approached. In his tantrum-fueled state, Harry climbed into the basket and wrapped his tiny arms around Emma. At first, it seemed like an act of affection, but it quickly turned into an uncomfortable hug. Harry squeezed Emma tightly, his frustration directed at the only one smaller than him.
Emma let out a soft whimper, her fragile body squirming under Harry’s grip. Mom was quick to intervene. She rushed over, gently but firmly prying Harry away from Emma. “Harry! That’s not how we treat our little sister,” she said, her voice firm but kind. She cradled Emma, checking to ensure the baby was unharmed. Thankfully, Emma was fine, though a little startled.
Harry, realizing he had upset both his mom and Emma, sat on the floor, his pout deepening. Big tears rolled down his cheeks as he looked up at his mom, seeking both forgiveness and comfort.
Mom softened at the sight of her teary boy. She placed Emma back in the basket and scooped Harry into her arms. “Harry, you need to learn to be gentle, especially with Emma. She’s so tiny,” Mom said, wiping his tears. Harry sniffled, burying his face in her shoulder.
Meanwhile, Sara climbed off the table and walked over to Emma’s basket. She leaned down and patted her little sister’s head gently, whispering, “It’s okay, Emma. Harry didn’t mean it.”
With the chaos settling, Mom handed Harry his milk bottle, giving him a reassuring pat. She handed Sara her bottle next, complimenting her for being so patient. Finally, she lifted Emma from the basket and fed her the warm milk with a bottle.
As peace returned, the trio sat together, their tiny hands holding their milk bottles. Harry peeked at Emma, his eyes full of quiet remorse. Sara gave him a gentle nudge, as if to say, “It’s all good now.”
Mom smiled at her little ones, thankful that, despite the occasional drama, their bond always grew stronger.
