In the nursery, Shang Yu leaned over to tuck the little blanket around the cub and stroked his tender cheek with his bent forefinger, his voice deep and rich as he spoke: "You should grow up."
Between the lines, growing up means weaning.
The man curved his thin lips and, as he turned, the milk-drunk baby suddenly kicked the blanket, mumbling two monosyllabic words, "Da...ddy..."
Shang Yu's back stiffened, and he abruptly halted.
He glanced back, looking at the cub struggling to sit up in the cradle, his Adam's apple moving continuously, then he walked back.
The baby was awake, his long eyelashes fluttering, reaching out his chubby little hands towards Shang Yu, "Da...ddy..."
He could only say one word at a time, yet it was more melodious than any adult's pronunciation.
Shang Yu tightly pursed his thin lips, crouching beside the cradle, and his broad palm slipped under his armpit, cradling him back into his arms, softly asking: "What did you call me?"
