Morning light crept softly into the room, but little Mario woke before the sun felt warm. His small body shifted restlessly, and a quiet whimper escaped his lips. Sleep had faded, replaced by a deep, aching hunger that tightened his tiny stomach.
At first, Mario tried to be patient.
He sucked weakly on his fingers, eyes half-open, hoping comfort would come on its own. But the hunger grew stronger with every second. His face scrunched up, brows pulling together, and his whimper turned into a cry. It wasn’t playful. It wasn’t loud yet. It was needy, raw, and full of discomfort.
Soon, the crying grew louder.
Mario’s mouth opened wide as he cried, his voice echoing through the quiet morning. Tears welled up and spilled over his cheeks. His arms waved in the air, fists clenching and unclenching as if reaching for help. He kicked his legs, frustrated and tired, unable to understand why his milk hadn’t come yet.
Hunger made everything feel worse.
The room felt too quiet.
The wait felt too long.
His cries became urgent, shaky, and desperate. Each breath came with another sob. His little body trembled, red-faced and exhausted, but he couldn’t stop. Hunger doesn’t wait, especially in the morning when a small body needs strength.
Then footsteps approached.
Mario cried harder at the sound, hope mixing with desperation. Gentle hands lifted him up, holding him close. The familiar warmth wrapped around him, and his cries softened just a little. He smelled something comforting. He felt safe.
The milk came next.
The moment it touched his lips, Mario latched on eagerly. His crying stopped instantly, replaced by hungry gulps. His body relaxed with every swallow. His fists slowly unclenched. His breathing steadied.
Minutes later, his belly was full. Mario let out a tiny sigh, eyes fluttering closed. The morning no longer felt hard.
With milk in his stomach and arms around him, little Mario rested quietly, learning a simple truth of baby life: mornings begin with hunger, but love always answers.
