I wasn’t sure how he’d take it.
When we brought baby Liora home, my biggest worry wasn’t the feedings or the diapers—it was Ezra. My wild, loud, crash-into-everything toddler. He’d been our whole world for three years, and now we were asking him to share it with someone who couldn’t even sit up.
At first, he mostly ignored her. No tantrums, no jealousy—just confusion. He’d peek into her bassinet like she was an alien and ask if she was going “back to the doctor store soon.”
We didn’t push it. We let him find his way.
Then one afternoon, I found them like this.
Both asleep on the living room floor—Liora bundled up in her soft pink blanket, and Ezra stretched out next to her, one arm protectively draped over her tiny body. His head was resting against the edge of the couch, his face soft and serene in a way I had never seen him before.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the sight in front of me. My heart swelled with emotion. The bond between them, though still so new, seemed to be forming naturally in a way I couldn’t have imagined. But as I stepped closer, I noticed something strange. Ezra’s small hand was clutching a crumpled piece of paper—a piece of paper that looked remarkably like the one I’d been writing my bills on earlier that morning.
I bent down to see what it was. It wasn’t a scribble or a random drawing like I expected—it was a list. A list that Ezra had written, or at least tried to, with what little he could spell.
It said:
“Liora’s Needs
- Food
- Blankie
- Sleep
- A hug
- Smile”
The words weren’t perfectly spelled, but they were clear enough. I had to blink a few times to keep the tears from spilling over.
Ezra had noticed. He had been watching, even when I thought he was just bouncing off the walls or trying to sneak snacks. The way he’d noticed how we took care of Liora, the small things he’d observed that I hadn’t realized were registering with him, left me speechless. This wasn’t just a toddler who had been suddenly thrust into the world of being an older sibling—this was a little boy who had been trying, in his own way, to make sure she was okay.
I gently knelt beside them, brushing a lock of hair from Ezra’s face. My eyes lingered on Liora for a moment before I pulled the blanket around both of them more snugly, and then I sat back on the couch, staring at the list in my hands.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t seen Ezra show affection for her before—he’d kiss her little feet when he thought no one was looking, or bring her stuffed animals just to see if she would grab them. But this… this list, this act of quietly observing, planning even—was different. He had taken responsibility, in the most innocent, pure way possible, for her well-being, as if in his mind, he was now her protector, even though he was still just a kid himself.
Over the next few weeks, his actions only continued to surprise me. Whenever Liora would start to cry, Ezra would run to her side and attempt to “comfort” her with the few words he could muster. “You okay, Liora?” he’d ask, softly patting her head, or sometimes even humming the little tune I often played to help her fall asleep.
But the most touching moment came when I went into her nursery one morning to check on her nap, only to find Ezra standing at her crib, watching her sleep, his tiny hand resting lightly on the side of the crib.
“I just wanted to make sure she was okay,” he said, his voice filled with the quiet wisdom only a child could express so simply.
For a while, everything seemed to be going smoothly—until one night, I woke to the sound of muffled sobs. I immediately got up, expecting it to be Liora, but when I opened the door to her room, I found Ezra standing by her crib, his back hunched, tears streaming down his face.
“Ezra?” I whispered, my heart sinking as I rushed toward him. “What’s wrong, baby?”
