Jolie sat alone on the floor, tiny shoulders hunched and eyes blazing with hurt. Mom had stepped away only briefly, but to Jolie it felt endless and frightening. The room grew quiet, shadows stretching, and anger rushed in to cover her fear. She stamped her feet, slapped the mat, and cried loudly, calling for the warmth that vanished too soon.
When Mom finally returned, Jolie turned away. Her lips trembled as she cried harder, refusing the comfort she wanted most. The anger wasn’t cruelty; it was confusion. Being left unattended felt like being forgotten. Her small heart beat fast, heavy with questions she could not ask.
Mom knelt down slowly, careful not to rush the moment. She spoke softly, explaining with calm sounds and gentle eyes. Jolie screamed once more, then paused, chest heaving. Tears streamed down her cheeks as exhaustion replaced fury. She peeked back, searching for proof that Mom was truly there.
Mom opened her arms and waited. Jolie hesitated, pride battling longing. Then she stepped forward and collapsed into that familiar embrace. The cries broke into sobs, then softened into shaky breaths. Mom held her close, rocking patiently, whispering reassurance and apologies Jolie could feel.
Warmth returned. The room felt safe again. Jolie clung tightly, not ready to let go, afraid the distance might come back. Mom stayed still, letting trust rebuild at its own pace. Slowly, Jolie’s body relaxed, her anger melting into tired calm.
Later, wrapped in a blanket, Jolie rested against Mom’s chest. The hurt hadn’t vanished instantly, but it eased. She learned that feelings can be loud and messy, yet still welcome. And Mom learned to leave gently, to return quickly, and to never doubt how deeply a tiny heart needs presence.
Tonight, they stayed together longer, breathing softly, healing quietly, learning patience.
