Morning sunlight filtered gently through the tall trees, warming the quiet forest. Little Leo woke with a rumbling stomach. He had not eaten since the night before, and hunger made his tiny body restless. He climbed closer to his mother, chirping softly at first. But as she ignored him while grooming the older siblings, Leo’s small voice turned into loud cries.
His mother, already tired from watching the troop and protecting them from danger, became irritated by his constant noise. Leo tugged her fur, hoping she would understand he was simply hungry. Instead, she pushed him away. When he cried louder, she struck him with a quick warning swat and he tumbled down onto the dusty ground below the roots.
The fall did not seriously injure him, but it shocked him. Leo sat still for a moment, covered in dirt from head to tail. His bright eyes watered, not only from the fall but from confusion. He didn’t understand discipline — only that he wanted comfort and food.
The troop glanced briefly, then returned to their business. For them, this was part of growing up. Mothers sometimes forced their babies to learn independence early. Leo sniffled, brushing dust off his face with shaky hands. His cries became softer, more like quiet whimpers carried by the wind.
After a while, his mother climbed down and approached him again. This time she did not strike him. She gently inspected him, then allowed him to cling to her belly. Leo held tightly, his hunger and fear slowly fading as he finally nursed.
The lesson was harsh, but in the wild survival often was. Soon Leo relaxed, eyes closing peacefully, his dusty fur resting safely against his mother’s warm chest.
