The wind blew gently through the trees, but the sound didn’t calm little Tino’s heart. He clung tightly to Daddy’s hand—both arms wrapped around his wrist, tiny fingers gripping as if his life depended on it.
And to him, it did.
Tino had only been with Daddy for a few days. Rescued from a harsh place, he had lived through fear, hunger, and confusion. He had lost his mother far too early, and now that he had warmth and safety again, he wasn’t letting go.
Not now. Not ever.
Daddy crouched by the garden, trying to prepare milk. “Tino, baby,” he whispered gently. “Just let me get the bottle.”
But Tino screamed—raw, desperate. He clung tighter, burying his wet face into Daddy’s arm. His cries weren’t fussy or playful—they were frantic. Shaking. Gasping between sobs.
He was terrified of being left again.
Daddy paused and held still, heart aching. He could feel Tino’s heartbeat pounding against his skin. “I’m not going anywhere, little one,” he whispered. “You’re safe. I promise.”
Still, Tino refused to release.
So Daddy sat down, right there on the ground, holding him close with one hand and pouring milk with the other. Tino slowly calmed, his breath still catching in little hiccups, his fingers refusing to loosen their grip.
He didn’t need words to say it—his grip told the truth:
“Don’t let go of me. I’ve been left before.”
And Daddy didn’t.
That night, Tino slept curled in the same palm he had cried into, finally dreaming without fear.
