Leo had never been the kind of child who lost his temper easily, but that afternoon everything felt different. The house was unusually quiet, the kind of quiet that makes every small sound feel loud. He wandered from room to room, clutching his stuffed tiger, trying to keep himself calm. But the silence only made his chest tighten more.
At first, he tried to distract himself with his toys. He lined up his cars, built a tower out of blocks, and even tried drawing a picture. Still, nothing worked. His thoughts kept drifting back to the empty doorway where his mom had waved goodbye just an hour earlier. She had said she wouldn’t be gone long, but to Leo, time without her felt stretched and slow.
He felt his eyes burn a little and tried not to cry. Crying, he believed, was something big kids weren’t supposed to do. But the feeling grew stronger—a mix of frustration, worry, and longing that he didn’t quite know how to express. Finally, he plopped onto the couch and let the tears spill out. “I just… need Mom,” he whispered to no one in particular.
His temper wasn’t loud or wild; it showed itself quietly, in the way he kicked his feet against the cushions and sniffled between sobs. Each tiny sound echoed through the room like a plea. He hugged his stuffed tiger tighter. “Mom, come back,” he murmured, his voice shaking.
Minutes felt like hours until the familiar sound of keys jingling at the door broke the silence. The door opened, and his mom stepped inside with a warm smile. “Leo, I’m back.”
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