“My God…!” was all anyone could think as Jona suddenly burst into a crying seizure, her tiny body shaking with anger and panic. She had been placed on the closed toilet cover for just a moment, asked to wait while mom finished nearby. To an adult, it was nothing. To Jona, it felt like abandonment.
Her cries exploded without warning—sharp, desperate, uncontrollable. Tears streamed down her face as she screamed, arms flailing, feet kicking against the smooth surface beneath her. She wasn’t just angry. She was terrified. Being told to wait felt like being left behind, forgotten in a strange, cold place.
Jona tried to climb down, slipping, which only made her cry harder. Her breathing turned uneven, little gasps between screams, her whole body stiff with emotion she couldn’t manage. The sound echoed, raw and heartbreaking. She called for mom again and again, voice cracking, eyes wild with fear.
Mom rushed back immediately. The moment she saw Jona’s condition, guilt washed over her. She scooped Jona up quickly, holding her tight against her chest. Jona fought at first, still angry, fists pounding weakly, but then her strength gave out. The seizure-like crying peaked, then slowly began to fade.
Mom rocked her firmly, whispering reassurance, apologizing softly. She pressed Jona close so she could feel a heartbeat, warmth, presence. That was what Jona needed all along—not the toilet cover, not patience lessons, but certainty that she was not alone.
Gradually, Jona’s cries turned into broken sobs. Her breathing steadied. She clung tightly, afraid to let go, afraid the moment would repeat. Mom didn’t move. She stayed still, letting Jona calm in her own time.
After a while, Jona lifted her head. Her eyes were red, swollen, exhausted—but calmer. She rested her cheek against mom, finally safe again.
That moment was a painful reminder: small hearts don’t understand “just wait.” They understand presence or absence. And for Jona, waiting alone felt like losing the world.
