Ronaldo sat stiffly on the floor, legs planted, fists clenched, and mouth wide open in a scream that filled the house. His face turned red with frustration, tears pooling but refusing to fall. Lunch wasn’t ready yet, and for Ronaldo, waiting felt unbearable. Hunger mixed with exhaustion, turning discomfort into rage.
Mom rushed to him, kneeling down, arms open. She spoke softly, trying to soothe him, but Ronaldo screamed louder, pushing her hands away. He didn’t want comfort. He wanted food, now. Every second felt like a broken promise. His cries weren’t just noise; they were demands, protests, and pleas all tangled together.
Mom stayed close, even when he yelled straight at her face. She breathed slowly, hoping he would mirror her calm. She wiped his cheeks, whispering that lunch was almost ready. To Ronaldo, “almost” meant nothing. His stomach hurt, his head buzzed, and his patience was gone.
He leaned forward and screamed again, voice cracking, body shaking with emotion too big for his small frame. Mom gently pulled him into her lap, rocking side to side. He resisted at first, arching his back, but her steady heartbeat began to reach him.
Gradually, the screams softened into sobs. His fists loosened. He buried his face into her chest, still angry, but tired of fighting. Mom held him tighter, not rushing, not scolding. Just staying.
The smell of food drifted in. Ronaldo lifted his head, sniffing. His cries faded into quiet whimpers. When the bowl finally appeared, his eyes followed it like hope returning.
As he ate, his shoulders dropped. The anger melted away, replaced by relief. He leaned against Mom, calm at last.
Sometimes kids scream not because they are bad, but because their needs feel urgent and overwhelming. That day, Ronaldo learned that even in anger, Mom stayed. And Mom learned that comfort before lunch mattered just as much as the meal itself.
