ChiChi sat stiffly on Mom’s lap, her tiny arms crossed tight against her chest, eyes flashing with stubborn anger. Everyone could tell this was not an ordinary moment. Usually, ChiChi loved to jump down, run around, and play with the others. But today, something inside her had flipped like a switch, and she refused—absolutely refused—to leave Mom’s warm lap.
Mom gently tried to lower ChiChi to the ground, encouraging her with a soft voice and a familiar smile. Toys were scattered nearby, and the others were already busy playing, laughing, and exploring. Yet ChiChi clung tighter, wrapping her arms around Mom’s waist as if the ground below had suddenly become the most unfair place in the world.
Her face told the whole story. Brows furrowed, lips pushed forward, she let out a sharp little cry of protest. It wasn’t fear—it was jealousy mixed with emotion. ChiChi wanted Mom all to herself. Today, sharing was not an option.
Every time Mom tried again, ChiChi lifted her legs and pressed herself closer, shaking her head firmly. “No,” her body language screamed. The more Mom encouraged playtime, the more determined ChiChi became to stay exactly where she was.
The others paused to watch. Some looked confused, others curious. ChiChi usually led the games, but now she was the center of a very different kind of attention. Mom sighed softly, understanding that this was one of those moments that couldn’t be rushed.
After a while, Mom stopped trying to move her. She simply stroked ChiChi’s back, slow and calm. Gradually, ChiChi’s angry breaths softened. Her grip loosened just a little. The world felt safer again.
Minutes later, ChiChi peeked down at the toys. The anger hadn’t fully gone, but it was fading. With one last reluctant glance at Mom, she finally slid down—slowly, carefully—still watching to make sure Mom didn’t go anywhere.
Play could wait. What ChiChi needed first was reassurance, and today, Mom’s lap was the only place that felt right.