ChiChi had been warm and comfortable in her mom’s arms, her tiny body curled perfectly against a familiar heartbeat. She felt safe there, like nothing bad could ever reach her. But when mom gently lowered her onto the floor for just a moment, ChiChi’s world shattered in an instant.
The second her feet touched the ground, she froze.
Then the crying exploded.
Her tiny mouth opened wide as sharp, angry sobs burst out of her chest. She threw her arms upward, reaching desperately for the arms that had just left her. Her legs kicked the floor in protest, her whole body stiff with fear and frustration. To ChiChi, being set down didn’t feel small—it felt like abandonment.
She scooted forward on the floor, still screaming, dragging her little body toward mom with all her strength. Tears streamed down her cheeks, making dark tracks through the dust on her face. Every cry sounded the same desperate message: Pick me up. Don’t leave me.
Mom turned back quickly, surprised by the strength of ChiChi’s reaction. She knelt down and held out her hands, calling her softly. But ChiChi was already in full tantrum. She arched her back, cried louder, and slapped the floor with tiny trembling hands, overwhelmed by emotion she was too small to understand.
When mom finally lifted her again, ChiChi melted instantly. The screaming stopped as quickly as it had begun. Her tight little fists loosened. Her shaking slowed. She pressed her wet face into mom’s chest, still sobbing softly but now safe again.
Mom rocked her gently, whispering comfort into her fur. ChiChi clung tightly, afraid the floor might steal her warmth again.
For ChiChi, the floor wasn’t just the floor.
It was distance.
And distance hurt too much for such a tiny heart.
