The morning began like any other, wrapped in the familiar comfort of routine. Soft sunlight filtered through the leaves outside, painting moving shadows across the floor. Birds chirped gently, and the world seemed calm, almost too calm. Cutis sat near the doorway, absently playing with a small twig, his bright eyes scanning the space where Mom usually moved with quiet strength and warmth. But something felt different. Something felt wrong.
Mom had been sitting very still for a long time.
Cutis tilted his head, confusion clouding his face. He wasn’t used to this silence—not this kind. Mom was always moving, always talking softly, always responding to the smallest sound. But now she sat there, one hand pressed against her chest, breathing slowly, her face pale and tired. Cutis sensed the change immediately, even if he didn’t understand it.
He crept closer, step by careful step.
“Mom?” his eyes seemed to ask.
Cutis reached out gently, touching her arm with his small hand. There was no immediate response. His heart began to race. He pulled his hand back, then reached again, this time holding on a little longer. His body stiffened, uncertainty washing over him like a cold wave.
Mom slowly turned her head and tried to smile, but it was weak—nothing like the warm smiles Cutis knew so well.
That smile frightened him more than silence ever could.
Cutis let out a soft sound, halfway between a whimper and a question. His brows furrowed as he studied her face, searching for answers he didn’t yet have words for. His mind raced through memories: Mom laughing, Mom cooking, Mom calling his name, Mom hugging him tight. Where was that Mom?
He climbed closer, pressing his forehead gently against her shoulder. His movements were slow and careful, as if afraid that sudden motion might make things worse. He listened to her breathing, irregular and shallow, and felt a strange heaviness settle in his chest.
“Mom… are you okay?”
He couldn’t say the words, but every part of him asked the question.
Time stretched painfully. Cutis stayed there, unmoving, afraid to leave her side. Even when a familiar sound echoed from another room, he refused to turn his head. His entire world had narrowed down to this one moment—this one fear.
Mom finally lifted her hand and rested it gently on Cutis’s back. The touch was weak but intentional, filled with reassurance.
“I’m okay,” she whispered softly, though her voice trembled.
Cutis didn’t understand the words, but he felt the vibration, the effort behind them. He looked up at her face again, his large eyes glistening. He studied every detail, as if memorizing her, afraid she might disappear if he blinked.
For the first time, Cutis felt helpless.
He had always been clever. Always playful. Always quick to solve problems. But this—this was different. This wasn’t a puzzle he could fix with curiosity or courage. This was fear. Raw, unfamiliar fear.
Mom shifted slightly, wincing. Cutis immediately reacted, wrapping his arms around her, pressing himself closer, as if his small body could somehow protect her. He nuzzled into her side, refusing to let go.
Mom closed her eyes.
She hadn’t planned for this moment. She hadn’t planned to scare him. But her body had grown tired lately, weighed down by responsibilities, by love, by carrying more than anyone could see. She wanted to be strong—especially for Cutis—but strength sometimes bends before it breaks.
Cutis felt the subtle tremble in her body.
That was enough to break him.
He let out a soft cry, clutching her clothes tightly. His fingers curled as if anchoring himself to her, desperate not to lose her. His breathing became fast and uneven, mirroring the chaos in his heart.
Mom opened her eyes and saw the fear reflected back at her.
“Oh, Cutis…” she murmured, pulling him closer despite the ache in her body. “I’m still here.”
Her words were gentle, but it was the warmth of her embrace that spoke louder.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Cutis stayed glued to her side, refusing to move even when she tried to adjust. Every time she shifted, he tightened his grip, his eyes darting anxiously.
Eventually, Mom’s breathing began to slow. Color returned faintly to her face. She stroked Cutis’s head, her fingers moving slowly through his fur.
Cutis noticed.
His body relaxed just a little.
He lifted his head and searched her eyes again, this time seeing something familiar—tired, yes, but alive. Present. His breathing eased, though he didn’t let go.
The world slowly returned to its rhythm.
But Cutis was changed.
That day taught him something he had never known before: that even the strongest ones can become fragile, that love includes fear, and that caring for someone sometimes means simply staying close.
Later, when Mom lay down to rest, Cutis followed her, curling up beside her quietly. No games. No mischief. Just presence. He watched every rise and fall of her chest, his eyes heavy but alert.
When she slept, he didn’t.
He kept watch.
In the quiet hours, Cutis remembered all the times Mom had cared for him—when he was scared, when he was hurt, when he didn’t understand the world. She had always been there, steady and strong.
Now, for the first time, the roles felt reversed.
And Cutis accepted it without question.
When Mom woke, she found him still beside her, eyes half-open, refusing to leave.
She smiled, truly smiled this time.
“You stayed,” she whispered.
Cutis responded by resting his head against her arm, his expression calm but serious, as if making a silent promise: I’m here. I won’t go.
That moment—quiet, tender, unspoken—became one of the deepest bonds they would ever share.
Cutis never fully understood what happened that day. He didn’t know about exhaustion, stress, or pain hidden behind brave smiles. But he understood love. And fear. And the instinct to protect those who matter most.
From that day on, he watched Mom more closely. He stayed nearer. He noticed the small signs—the sighs, the pauses, the moments when she sat quietly instead of moving.
And every time, without fail, he would come closer.
Just to check.
Just to ask, in his own silent way:
“Mom… are you okay?”
