The morning sun lit up the quiet home as Mama swept the floor, humming softly while dust floated through the air. Dishes clinked in the sink. Laundry spun in the basket. Mama had a long list today.
But Baby Ricky didn’t understand lists.
He sat in the middle of the floor with his little arms by his side and his favorite toy nearby—ignored. His round eyes followed Mama wherever she moved. She didn’t look back. Not yet.
His lip began to tremble.
“Mama?” he squeaked softly. No answer.
So he dropped to the floor with a moody little thump, face down, arms spread wide. Then came the tears—soft at first, then louder, then louder. A full baby monkey wail that echoed through the living room.
He wasn’t hurt.
He wasn’t hungry.
He just missed her.
Mama turned quickly, broom still in hand. “Oh, Ricky!” she gasped, rushing over.
Ricky didn’t stop crying. He wanted her to see—to know that even five minutes apart felt like forever in his tiny heart.
Mama scooped him up gently, holding him close. His tears soaked into her shirt, but she didn’t mind. She sat on the floor, rocking him softly, whispering, “I’m sorry, baby. Mama’s here.”
Ricky hiccupped, then slowly calmed. His little fingers clung to her shirt like he would never let go again.
The chores could wait.
