Ronaldo cried with all his strength, his tiny chest shaking as angry tears poured down his face. He reached both arms upward, fingers opening and closing, begging silently to be picked up. But this time, Mom didn’t lift him. She stayed where she was, watching him carefully, her heart heavy but firm.
Ronaldo didn’t understand.
To him, being picked up meant safety, comfort, and love. When Mom refused, confusion turned quickly into anger. His cries grew louder, sharper, filled with protest. He stomped his little feet, his body stiff with frustration. Why wasn’t she coming? Had he done something wrong?
Mom knelt down to his level, speaking softly. Her voice was calm, patient, trying to explain without words that he needed to stand on his own for a moment. But Ronaldo’s emotions were too big. He turned his face away, crying even harder, refusing to look at her.
His anger wasn’t hate.
It was fear.
He felt small, powerless, and overwhelmed. Tears blurred his vision as he cried out again, his voice cracking. He wanted Mom’s arms more than anything. The distance between them felt enormous, even though she was right there.
Mom stayed close but didn’t give in. She reached out gently, not to pick him up, but to reassure him. Her hand rested near him, warm and steady. She waited, giving him space to feel, to release the storm inside.
Slowly, Ronaldo’s cries softened. His screams turned into sobs, then sniffles. His body sagged with exhaustion. He glanced at Mom, eyes swollen and wet. She smiled softly, pride and love mixed with concern.
When Ronaldo finally took a shaky step toward her, Mom opened her arms. This time, he walked into them himself. She lifted him then, holding him close, rocking gently.
In that embrace, Ronaldo learned something new. Love doesn’t disappear when arms don’t lift right away. Sometimes, love teaches strength before comfort.
