A Tong ran fast, crying loud as panic chased him through the room. One moment mommy was there, warm and sure, and the next she was gone. His tiny feet slipped, then pushed harder, driven by fear. He called again and again, voice breaking, eyes wide, searching every corner. Losing mommy felt like losing air.
He raced past toys and shadows, heart pounding, tears blurring his path. Each step echoed with the same question: where did she go? He paused, listening, then screamed louder, hoping sound could pull her back. His hands reached forward, empty, trembling. The world felt suddenly too big.
Mommy heard him. She was only steps away, preparing milk, but to A Tong distance felt endless. She turned, saw his panic, and hurried toward him. Still, he kept running, crying harder, fear refusing to wait for reason. He tripped, caught himself, and wailed, chest heaving.
Mommy knelt and opened her arms. The moment A Tong saw her face, hope burst through the fear. He sprinted the last steps and crashed into her chest, sobbing uncontrollably. She wrapped him tight, grounding his shaking body, whispering his name until the storm slowed.
A Tong clung like he might fall forever if he let go. His cries softened to hiccups. His breathing matched hers. Mommy rocked him gently, reminding him she hadn’t left, she was here, always listening.
When calm returned, A Tong rested his head on her shoulder, exhausted. He learned something important today. Losing sight doesn’t mean losing love. Fear can be loud, but comfort answers louder. Mommy kissed his forehead, holding him close, promising safety through presence. Together they breathed, together they stayed, together they moved forward, knowing love runs faster than fear, every time. Tonight he sleeps trusting dawn will bring milk warmth and mommy again.
