It was supposed to be a peaceful afternoon, but little Minea had other plans. Mom gently called her over for milk time, the warm bottle ready in hand. Normally, this was Minea’s favorite part of the day, but today her mood was as stormy as the clouds outside.
Earlier, Mom had told Minea “no” when she tried to climb onto the forbidden high shelf. That tiny moment had planted a seed of stubbornness in her little heart. Now, when Mom came with the milk, Minea turned her head away, crossing her tiny arms as if to say, I’m still mad at you!
Mom tried everything—soft coaxing, playful sounds, even waving the bottle right under her nose. But Minea only let out a soft cry, her eyelids heavy from drowsiness. Slowly, the anger melted into tiredness, and she flopped down on her blanket, curling up in a pouty little ball.
Her cries became softer, more like sleepy whimpers. Every few seconds she would peek at Mom from the corner of her eye, as if checking whether Mom was still there. Mom, patient as ever, stayed close, gently stroking Minea’s back without forcing the bottle.
Before long, Minea’s breathing slowed, her tiny body finally giving in to sleep. The bottle sat untouched on the table, and Mom sighed softly, knowing her little girl would wake up hungry later.
As she watched Minea sleep, her face still faintly scrunched from the earlier tantrum, Mom couldn’t help but smile. Even in anger, Minea looked impossibly adorable—her tiny fingers curled, her little tail twitching in her dreams.
Milk could wait. For now, Mom let her baby rest, knowing that no matter the mood, their love was still as warm and comforting as that bottle waiting nearby.
