Max was desperately hungry, and waiting felt impossible. He sat on the floor, eyes fixed on mom as she mashed potatoes and mixed milk, her hands moving carefully, slowly—too slowly for him. His stomach ached, and every second without food made his small body tremble with frustration.
He cried loudly, sharp cries filled with urgency and fear. To Max, hunger wasn’t just discomfort. It was panic. It felt like something terrible might happen if the food didn’t come right now. He crawled closer, reaching up, tugging gently at mom’s leg, begging with every sound he could make.
Mom spoke softly, telling him to wait, telling him it would be ready soon. But Max couldn’t understand soon. His cries grew stronger, tears spilling down his cheeks. He rocked back and forth, anger mixing with desperation. The smell of warm milk made it worse. It was so close, yet not in his mouth.
He banged his tiny hands on the floor, then paused, breathing hard, eyes full of hope every time mom glanced his way. When she turned back to the bowl, his voice cracked. Hunger drained his strength, but he refused to stop crying. Being hungry made him feel small, forgotten, and scared.
Finally, mom finished mixing. She tested the temperature carefully—never rushing, even while Max screamed. That patience mattered. When the bowl was ready, she lifted him gently into her arms. Max cried one last time, then latched onto the spoon eagerly, drinking fast, desperate for relief.
With every swallow, the panic faded. His cries softened into quiet sounds. His body relaxed, shoulders dropping as warmth filled his belly. Tears dried on his cheeks. He leaned into mom, exhausted but safe.
Soon, Max stopped crying completely. His eyes blinked slowly. Hunger no longer hurt. Waiting had been hard—but love arrived in the end, warm, gentle, and right on time.
