The morning sun filtered through the leaves, painting soft shadows on the forest floor. Little Milo clung to his mother’s chest, his tiny fingers tangled in her fur, searching for comfort and the warm promise of milk. But today felt different. His mum’s arms were firm, not cruel, yet strangely unyielding. She held him close, then gently pushed him away, her eyes calm but resolute. Milo whimpered, confused. Why does Mum hold on my body like this? he wondered. Why won’t she let me nurse?
Hunger mixed with fear, and his cry echoed like a fragile question in the trees. He tried again, nuzzling closer, but she turned her shoulder, guiding him down to the ground. The world suddenly felt big and cold. Milo’s heart raced. To him, it felt like the end of everything he knew—like a small death of comfort. Oh die… his thoughts trembled, not of life ending, but of the safety he was losing.
Yet his mother stayed near. She didn’t leave. She watched as he stumbled, picked at leaves, and tasted a new bitterness that wasn’t milk. When he cried, she answered with a low call, not pulling him back, but reassuring him she was still there. Her lesson was silent and heavy, but filled with care.
As the day passed, Milo noticed her eyes soften when he tried on his own. She showed him fruit, cracked it open, and waited. Slowly, his fear loosened its grip. The ache of hunger changed into curiosity. He chewed, awkward and unsure, but alive with discovery.
By evening, Milo curled beside her, exhausted. There was no milk, but there was warmth, breath, and the steady rhythm of her heart nearby. He understood, just a little: letting go hurt, but it was not abandonment. It was love teaching him how to stand, how to live, and how to grow beyond her arms.
