Little Libe lay flat on the floor, his small body shaking as loud cries filled the room. Mom was busy nearby, moving quickly, but to Libe it felt like she was far away. He didn’t understand work or waiting. He only knew that the arms he needed were not holding him. Fear and frustration mixed together, turning into powerful screams. (63)
Libe rolled slightly from side to side, crying harder each time he lifted his head and failed to see Mom come toward him. His mouth opened wide, voice raw and desperate. The floor felt cold against his cheek, and every sound around him seemed too big and too loud. Being left there made his tiny heart race. (127)
He stretched his arms upward, reaching for nothing, hoping Mom would notice. His cries echoed again and again, louder now, filled with protest. To Libe, lying on the floor meant being forgotten. He kicked weakly, then paused, catching his breath, before crying all over again. (188)
Mom heard every cry. Her heart ached, but her hands were still busy. She spoke softly from where she stood, trying to reassure him with her voice. But Libe needed more than words. He needed touch. He needed closeness. The crying didn’t stop. (246)
Finally, Mom finished and rushed over. The moment Libe felt her hands lifting him, his crying broke into short sobs. He clung tightly, pressing his face into her chest as if afraid she might leave again. His body slowly relaxed, breathing calming with every heartbeat he felt. (300)
Mom rocked him gently, whispering comfort. Libe’s cries faded into quiet sniffles, then silence. Being busy had never meant abandoning him—but he couldn’t know that yet. All he knew was the pain of waiting and the relief of being held again. That day reminded everyone of something simple and true. For a little baby, love is not measured in time or intention. It is measured in arms that return, in comfort that arrives, and in the feeling of being picked up when the world feels too big.
