Under the tall trees, a tiny baby monkey clung to a low branch, his small fingers trembling as he cried. His belly was empty, his eyes wide and shining with hope. Every soft whimper was a question sent into the air: Mama, will you look at me? He stretched his arms again and again, asking not only for milk, but for warmth, for comfort, for a hug that could quiet his fear.
Mama sat nearby, calm and distant. She watched the forest, alert to sounds and shadows, but she did not turn to her baby. The little one crawled closer, pressing his face to her side, searching for the familiar smell and gentle touch he remembered. When she shifted away, his cry broke into sobs, thin and desperate. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
Time passed slowly. The baby tried to be brave. He wiped his wet face with the back of his tiny hand and rocked himself, as if pretending to be held. Still, he reached out, resting his head against Mama’s leg, hoping she would feel his need. His cries softened into small hiccups, the sound of a heart learning patience too early.
Mama’s eyes flicked down at last. For a moment, nothing happened. Then she sighed, a deep, tired breath, and her body relaxed. She did not rush, but she did not turn away either. The baby noticed instantly. He leaned in, careful and hopeful, his whole body waiting for permission.
At last, Mama gathered him close. The baby’s cries faded into quiet, grateful breaths as he hugged her tightly, as if afraid the moment might disappear. In that gentle hold, hunger met comfort, fear met safety. The forest breathed again. Sometimes love arrives late, but when it comes, it still heals.
