The baby’s crying echoed through the forest, sharp and desperate, rising and falling like a broken song. His small body trembled as he clung to a low branch, his mouth wide open, tears soaking the fur on his cheeks. He had been crying for a long time—too long for such a tiny heart.
He was hungry. He was scared. And most of all, he was alone.
His mother had gone farther than usual that morning, searching for food after days of scarcity. The forest had been unkind lately. Fruits were rare, leaves were dry, and every step felt heavier than the last. Still, she pushed herself, thinking she would return quickly.
But time moved faster than she expected.
Back near the tree, the baby waited. At first, his cries were soft, hopeful sounds, the kind that said, She will come. As minutes passed, those sounds turned louder, angrier, and filled with pain. His mouth opened wide again and again, screaming into the empty air.
Why wasn’t she here?
His tiny fists clenched. His cries became sharp, almost furious, as if anger mixed with fear inside his chest. He kicked the branch, slipping slightly, and cried even harder.
When the mother finally returned, she heard the cries before she saw him.
Her heart dropped.
She rushed forward, leaves falling beneath her feet, her eyes wide with panic and anger—anger at the forest, at the hunger, at herself. She saw her baby shaking, his face red, his mouth stretched wide in endless crying.
She was late.
Too late.
She reached for him quickly, pulling him into her arms. But the baby screamed louder, furious now. He pushed against her chest with his tiny hands, crying with all his strength, as if saying, Where were you?
The mother growled softly, not at him, but at the pain she felt inside. Her body trembled with guilt. She tried to offer him comfort, holding him close, pressing her warm fur against his cold body.
But the baby did not calm down.
He cried and cried, his voice breaking, his mouth opening wide with every breath. His anger poured out in sound. He arched his back, refusing to settle, his cries filled with hurt and betrayal.
The mother sat down, holding him tightly. She lowered her head and began to clean his face, licking away tears, wiping his mouth gently. Her movements were careful, loving, but urgent.
“I’m here now,” her touch said. “I’m here.”
She tried to feed him, offering what she had brought back. At first, the baby refused, crying through the offering, too upset to stop. His body shook, his sobs heavy and exhausting.
The mother waited.
She did not move away. She did not force him. She simply stayed, rocking him slowly, letting his anger burn itself out.
Gradually, the cries changed. They became less sharp, more broken. His anger softened into deep sobs. His body grew tired, heavy against her chest.
At last, he accepted her comfort.
His mouth closed between cries. His breathing slowed. One small hand reached up and grabbed her fur tightly, as if afraid she might disappear again.
The mother held him even closer than before. Her eyes stayed fixed on him, watching every breath. She would not leave again—not today.
The forest grew quiet.
The baby still sniffed and whimpered, but he was no longer alone. Though she had come too late to stop his tears, she stayed long enough to hold him through them.
And sometimes, that is how love survives—by staying, even after the crying has already begun.
