PoPo clutched his milk bottle with both hands, screaming so loudly the room trembled. Hunger mixed with anger as Mom gently asked him to walk by himself. To PoPo, that request felt unfair. His legs felt small, the floor felt far, and walking meant letting go of comfort. He screamed again, hugging the bottle to his chest like a shield.
Mom crouched nearby, calm and patient. She encouraged him softly, holding her hands open, promising safety with every step. PoPo shook his head hard, tears spilling as he stamped one foot, then collapsed into a sit. He lifted the bottle and cried at it too, angry that milk could not solve everything.
The scream grew sharper. PoPo arched his back, refusing help, refusing comfort, refusing to try. Independence felt scary today. He wanted arms, not lessons. He wanted to be carried, not challenged. His cries echoed, raw and demanding, telling the world he was not ready.
Mom waited. She did not scold. She breathed with him, naming feelings, giving space. Slowly, the storm softened. PoPo’s screams cracked into sobs. His grip on the bottle loosened. He looked up, eyes searching, unsure.
Mom moved closer and offered one finger, not arms. PoPo hesitated. He sniffed, wiped his face, and reached out. Standing wobbly, he took one tiny step, then another, shaking but brave. The room went quiet.
When he finally reached her, Mom praised him gently. PoPo drank his milk, calmer now, pride warming his chest. He learned something important. Walking alone can feel frightening, but support doesn’t disappear. It waits nearby, cheering softly, ready to catch you whenever courage falters.
Tomorrow, PoPo will try again, remembering today’s small victory, knowing love stays close, patient, steady, and kind, even when steps feel impossibly hard for him.
