BB sat quietly on the rough tree stick, small legs dangling, tail wrapped around the branch like it was the only thing he had left. The sun was lowering behind the farm field, painting everything gold, but his world felt dim and heavy. His wide eyes scanned every corner, every shadow, every swaying leaf—searching, waiting, hoping for the familiar touch of mom’s fur, the sound of her gentle grunts. But she wasn’t there. Only silence and the distant bleating of goats answered him.
He shifted nervously, as if sitting still made the emptiness louder. His tiny fingers gripped the branch harder while the breeze rustled his baby-soft hair. He let out a shaky cry—the kind filled with loneliness more than fear. He wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t cold. He was simply missing the warmth of the only love he knew.
A few farm workers walked nearby, watching the helpless little one. He didn’t run. He didn’t play. He just stared, lost and confused, not understanding why mom hadn’t come back. Every minute felt like an hour for a heart so small.
Then, hope flickered.
A distant rustling, a call almost too soft to notice—but BB’s ears twitched. He lifted his head, eyes widening with life again. He let out a louder cry, desperate, calling back with all the strength in his tiny chest. He wanted mom to hear him, to come and scoop him up, to press their foreheads together like always.
Whether she was coming or not, he didn’t know. But on that lonely stick, BB believed she would. His cry echoed through the farm, carried by the wind, like a message of longing only a mother could understand.
He stayed there, small but brave, hoping love would find its way back to him.
