Ronaldo sat on the floor with his back stiff and his small fists clenched tight. Hunger burned inside his tiny body, turning every sound into irritation. His stomach growled, but what hurt more was the waiting. When Mom tried to comfort him, he shouted louder, shaking his head and refusing to listen. To Ronaldo, comfort without food felt useless.
Mom knelt beside him, her voice soft and patient. She rubbed his back, whispering calm words, telling him everything would be okay. But Ronaldo screamed again, sharp and angry, his face red with frustration. He slapped the floor once, then again, making it clear he didn’t want gentle words. He wanted milk, and he wanted it now.
His cries echoed through the room. Tears filled his eyes, but he didn’t wipe them away. He turned his face from Mom, shoulders tense, breathing fast and uneven. Hunger made his emotions explode, and he couldn’t control the storm inside. Every second felt like forever. Every delay felt like neglect.
Mom stayed close, even when he pushed her hand away. She understood this anger wasn’t rejection. It was need. She spoke slowly, reassuring him that food was coming, that she hadn’t forgotten. Ronaldo screamed in response, his voice cracking, anger mixing with exhaustion. For a moment, he looked lost, unsure whether to keep fighting or give in.
Finally, the bottle appeared. Ronaldo froze mid-cry, eyes locking onto it. He shouted one last time, releasing all the built-up frustration, then reached out desperately. As soon as the milk touched his lips, the anger drained from his body.
His shoulders relaxed. His fists unclenched. The shouting faded into quiet sucking sounds. Tears dried on his cheeks as warmth filled his belly. Mom held him close, steady and calm, never saying “I told you so.”
When Ronaldo finished, he leaned against her, tired and peaceful. Hunger had spoken louder than comfort, but love had waited patiently. In that quiet moment, trust returned. Ronaldo learned that even when he shouted, Mom never left.
