Yuri sat stiff beside the table, eyes blazing as Mom lifted a bowl of spicy soup to her lips. The smell teased Yuri’s nose, sharp and exciting, and her stomach twisted with want. She reached forward, fingers stretching, but Mom gently blocked her hand. No spicy food, Mom said softly. Yuri did not hear soft. She heard no.
Her face flushed hot. A sharp cry burst out, followed by furious little kicks against the chair. Yuri slapped the table, glaring at the bowl as if it had betrayed her. Mom kept eating slowly, explaining again that spicy food burned small bellies. Yuri screamed louder, tears springing fast, anger crashing over hunger.
She tried again, lunging toward the bowl. Mom turned it away and offered plain food instead. Yuri shoved it aside, insulted. How could Mom eat something so exciting while she could not? The unfairness felt enormous. Her cries echoed, rising and falling, demanding justice.
Mom knelt to Yuri’s level, eyes calm, voice steady. She named the feeling: angry, jealous, hungry. Yuri screamed anyway, fists clenched, body shaking with big emotion. Mom waited, breathing with her, not giving in, not leaving.
Slowly, the fire burned down. Yuri’s cries broke into sobs. Mom wiped her cheeks and held her close, letting her feel heard. When Yuri finally tasted the gentle food, she ate grudgingly, then steadily. Her shoulders softened. The storm passed.
Later, Yuri watched Mom finish the spicy soup without rage. She leaned against Mom’s arm, safe and full. She learned that limits were not punishments, and love did not disappear with no. Mom learned patience again, choosing care over comfort. Together, they turned anger into trust, one calm moment at a time. Tomorrow, boundaries would repeat, meals would differ, and Yuri would grow safer, wiser, calmer with Mom nearby.
