I was lying in my crib with a plan brewing in my tiny mind. The house was quiet, everyone asleep.
I started with a low, grumbling cry, just enough to break the silence. Slowly, my cries grew louder and more persistent, like an alarm bell in the night. I could almost hear Ma and Pa's heartbeats quicken as they stumbled out of bed, their minds clouded with sleep and worry.
My cries continued, unwavering and strategic. Ma and Da tried everything – rocking, soothing words, feeding. But I was resolute. I could sense their frustration and desperation building.
The tension in the house was palpable. Words like "exhaustion" and "helplessness" floated through the air. Someone even muttered, half-jokingly, "Is it too late for adoption?"
Just as they reached their wit's end, I ceased my crying. I lay there, eyes open, gazing at them with an almost knowing look. I had once again reinforced my position as the most important thing in their lives, never to be fully understood, yet always prioritized.