In the early morning light, when the forest was still wrapped in mist, little Tia entered the world with a cry that cut through the silence. She was a newborn monkey, tiny and fragile, her eyes barely open, her hands searching for warmth and safety. But instead of being held close, Tia was placed on the cold ground for far too long, and her sharp, trembling cries echoed between the trees.
Tia did not understand why her mother stepped away. Hunger burned in her small body, and fear followed quickly behind it. She kicked her thin legs and lifted her head with great effort, yelling loudly as if hoping her voice alone could bring comfort. Each cry sounded angry, not from hate, but from confusion and desperation. She needed milk, touch, and reassurance, yet the ground beneath her offered none of that.
Her mother hovered nearby, watching, torn between instinct and exhaustion. Perhaps she believed the lesson would make Tia stronger, or perhaps stress clouded her judgment. Still, every cry made the mother flinch. Other monkeys paused to look, sensing the tension in the air. The forest, usually alive with gentle sounds, seemed to hold its breath.
At last, the mother moved closer. Tia’s cries grew louder, her tiny fists clenching as if pleading. When her mother finally picked her up, pressing Tia against her chest, the screaming softened into shaky whimpers. Warmth returned, and with it, the comfort Tia had been calling for all along.
This moment was a reminder of how vulnerable newborn life is. A few minutes on the ground felt like forever to a baby so small. Tia’s loud yelling was not just noise—it was a newborn’s desperate language, asking for love, care, and the safety only a mother can give.
