In the warm afternoon light of the forest, Baby Leo sat quietly beside a patch of soft mud, poking it with his tiny fingers. The troop was already on the move, but Leo’s curiosity always slowed him down. Today, he was completely distracted by the cool, squishy feeling between his toes. To him, it was a magical discovery; to his mom, it was yet another reason to worry.
Mom Lea turned back for the third time, calling softly at first, urging her son to follow. But Leo simply blinked, tilted his head, and stayed where he was. The rest of the group was climbing toward the fruit trees, and Lea feared being left behind. With a sigh mixed with frustration and concern, she hurried toward her slow little boy.
When she reached him, Leo was covered in mud from belly to toes. Lea touched his shoulder, nudging him forward, but the little one resisted, whining softly. The mud made him heavier, and each step felt like a struggle. Lea scolded him in her sharp motherly tone—not out of anger, but out of fear that he would fall too far behind and get into danger.
She tugged him gently along the muddy trail, trying to teach him the importance of staying close. Leo stumbled a little, splashing mud around, not understanding why his peaceful playtime had suddenly turned into a lesson. His tiny cries echoed, not from pain, but from the misunderstanding between them.
Eventually, Lea paused, cleaned his face with a few quick licks, and pulled him close. Leo clung to her chest, finally understanding that she only wanted him safe. Together, they continued forward—muddy, tired, but closer than before.
