“I — I told some of the girls at kindy about it,” you admit with dread. It had been an awful few weeks. “They —” you swallow nervously, remembering it, even though it felt like ages ago. “They made fun of me for it. They called me a baby.”
Mama looks sad at your words before hugging you again.
“I forget how cruel some people can be,” she says, rubbing your back soothingly.
Sniffling, you realise you did miss it. It really was nice to get looked after. It was nice to not have to worry about accidents. That time in kindergarten was when you realised what other people said about you did hurt, and you suddenly cared about not having people say things about you.