Once upon a time, in a village full of gardens, a little boy lived with his mother and his grandma. His mother loved him very much. But the boy was a little bit careless. He left his toys in the mud. He grumbled at bath time. And when Mother asked, "Can you help me carry the basket?" he often said, "No, I want to play!"
One year the rains were small, and the harvest was small too. Mother had to go far away, to a big town beyond the river, to help at a busy market for a whole season. The night before she left, she held her son close. "I will come home when the fruit trees bloom," she said. "Be kind to Grandma, and look after our garden for me."
Then she took a small round seed from her pocket and planted it in a corner of the yard. She patted the soil with her gentle hand. "This is our tree, yours and mine," she said. "Please water it for me."
In the morning, Mother waved goodbye and walked away down the village road. The boy waved too, but then he ran off to play and forgot all about the seed.
Days went by, and the boy missed his mother. When he missed her, he felt grumpy. He kicked pebbles and pushed his rice bowl away. Grandma was patient. She hummed a soft tune and stroked his hair. "Mother thinks about you every single day," she said. "Have you watered your tree?"
The boy looked at the yard. A tiny green sprout had popped up from the soil all by itself, as if it had been waiting for him. He fetched a little cup of water and poured it gently, drip, drip, drip. Inside, he felt a warm, cosy feeling.
Every day after that, he watered the little tree. It grew taller, and taller, and taller. Its leaves were very special: green and shiny on top, and soft and silvery underneath, like the soft palm of Mother's hand. When the wind blew, the leaves rustled, shh, shh, shh, like Mother's voice whispering, "Sleep now, my little one."
As the tree grew, the boy grew kinder. He carried water for Grandma. He put his toys away. He shared his sweets with the little girl next door. At night he lay under the tree, looked up at the stars through the leaves, and whispered, "Mother, I'm being kind. Come home soon."
One morning, the tree was covered in tiny white flowers. Then round green fruits appeared, one here, one there, and slowly they turned smooth and purple. One ripe fruit dropped softly, plop, right into the boy's hands. He took a bite. Out came sweet, creamy juice, white like milk and warm like a hug.
"Grandma! Grandma! Our tree has fruit!" he called. "The flowers bloomed, so Mother is coming home!"
And that very afternoon, down the dusty road, came someone carrying a bundle on a shoulder pole. The boy ran as fast as his legs could go. "Mother!" "My darling!" She scooped him up and held him tight. "Grandma sent word that you have been so kind," she said, "and look how tall our tree has grown."
That evening, Mother, Grandma and the boy sat together under the tree and shared its sweet fruit. The silvery leaves rustled softly above them, shh, shh, shh. The boy leaned against his mother, and his eyes grew heavy, heavier, heavier. People in the village called it the milk-fruit tree, because its fruit was as sweet as a mother's love.
Parent tip: Let your child stroke the palm of your hand when you read about the soft silvery leaves, then whisper "shh, shh" together like the wind in the tree.
Ask your child: After the story, you can ask: “Who was kind in this story, and what did they do?”
This is a gentle retelling: Mother is only away working for a season while Grandma cares for the boy, and she comes home happy.