The rain had just stopped, but the ground still shimmered with puddles and patches of soaked soil.
Luno sat in the mud, his little fists pounding the wet earth. His cheeks were streaked with dirt and tears. His cries pierced the cloudy afternoon—loud, angry, relentless.
It was the kind of crying that demanded attention.
But none came.
A few feet away, Mom Luno sat on a stone bench, staring into the distance. Her hands were limp in her lap. Her eyes were dull, almost blank.
She had heard him—every scream, every gasp, every wail. But something inside her had gone quiet. The noise registered, but it didn’t move her.
Not anymore.
She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t mean.
She was just… tired. So deeply tired.
She remembered the early months when Luno’s every whimper sent her flying. She used to cry when he cried, sing to calm him, hold him until they both melted into sleep.
Now? The tears felt far away. Even her own.
She watched as Luno’s feet kicked at the muddy ground. His soft shirt clung to his skin. He was frustrated, wet, and confused—his tiny world collapsing because he didn’t know how else to say, “Please, love me. Please, notice me.”
But she did notice. That was the worst part. She noticed—and still couldn’t feel the right thing.
Guilt crept in like cold water soaking through socks.
What kind of mother feels bored?
What kind of mother watches her baby cry and feels nothing?
A sharp sob broke from Luno’s throat, and something inside her cracked—not into love, but into ache.
She stood slowly. Her legs felt stiff, as if they hadn’t moved in hours.
She walked to him, knelt down in the mud, and pulled him to her chest. He resisted at first, still angry, still loud. But then his face buried into her neck, and the crying faded to hiccups.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice low. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Luno didn’t understand her words, but he understood her arms.
And for now, that was enough.
