The forest was silent except for the faint rustle of dry leaves and the soft cries of a tiny baby monkey. The little one was weak, trembling, and barely clinging to a low branch. His mother, once gentle and protective, now appeared distant and unsettled. Hunger, exhaustion, and confusion filled her eyes as she looked at her fragile baby who struggled to reach her for warmth.
Moments earlier, the mother had tried to nurse her baby, but something was wrong. Her milk had run dry, and the baby’s desperate cries echoed through the forest, unanswered. Frustrated and afraid, the mother monkey began to act strangely—pulling her baby by the arm, then by the tail, trying to make him move. The baby’s soft whimpers turned to faint squeaks as his tiny body dragged through the dust and leaves.
Other monkeys in the troop watched from a distance. Some looked on with sadness, others with confusion, not daring to intervene. The mother’s instincts were torn—part of her still loved her baby deeply, but another part, driven by survival and instinct, seemed to reject him. She didn’t understand what she was doing; she only knew something inside her hurt.
The baby monkey stopped moving, his eyes half open, his breath fading. Yet the mother continued to drag him, as if trying to wake him, as if refusing to accept what had happened. When she finally stopped, she sat beside him quietly, holding his tiny hand for a moment before looking away into the trees.
It was a heartbreaking scene—a mother’s love lost to confusion and nature’s cruel cycle. The forest fell silent again, mourning the little life that ended too soon.
