he sun rose gently above the jungle canopy, casting soft golden light over the forest floor. Birds chirped, leaves rustled in the wind, and the forest began to wake up. Among the tall trees, a small group of monkeys stirred in the early light. In the heart of this troop sat a mother—weak, trembling, her arms wrapped protectively around a tiny, fragile baby.
She was known by the forest watchers as Lina, a gentle and caring monkey who had always been strong and nurturing. But now, Lina was not the same. Her fur looked dull, her eyes hollow, and her body had grown thin from sickness and exhaustion. Her baby, just a few days old, clung tightly to her chest, searching, again and again, for the warmth and nourishment only a mother could give—but there was no milk.
A Mother’s Love, a Body That Betrayed
Lina had given birth in the early hours of the morning, three days before. The birth had been difficult. She had struggled for hours in pain, alone beneath the roots of an old fig tree while the rest of the troop slept nearby. But finally, after much effort, her baby had come into the world—tiny, wet, and full of life.
She had licked her newborn clean, nuzzled it close, and waited for the moment every mother longs for—the moment her baby latches and drinks her milk. But nothing came.
She tried to guide the baby. The little one nuzzled, opened its mouth, but there was no milk. Her breasts, dry and empty, were not giving life. At first, she thought it was temporary, perhaps her body was still adjusting. But as the hours turned to days, the cruel truth grew heavier: she couldn’t feed her baby.
Every attempt the little one made to suckle was met with failure. Every cry, every soft whimper, echoed through Lina’s chest like a spear. Her body betrayed her, and with each passing hour, her baby’s strength faded.
Hunger, Tears, and Helplessness
The baby’s cries became more desperate, more painful. It nuzzled at Lina’s belly, rubbed its tiny face against her chest, opening its mouth and searching for something that wasn’t there. Lina tried everything—changing positions, grooming the baby more, holding it close through the cold nights.
Other mothers in the troop, full of milk, fed their babies easily. Their little ones played, climbed, and cooed while Lina’s baby grew weaker, curling into a tighter ball of soft fur, its movements becoming slower, its cries quieter.
Lina looked at the other mothers with quiet pain. Her instincts told her to find help, but in the world of wild monkeys, there is no hospital, no emergency room. A mother must rely on her body. And hers had failed her.
She did not abandon her baby. Not for one second. She cradled it against her chest day and night. Even when it whimpered in hunger and whimpered again in pain, she stayed. She walked slower, sat more often, and ignored the food around her because she couldn’t bear to leave her baby, even to eat.
The jungle was lush, but in Lina’s world, it felt like a desert. Not because of the lack of food or water, but because of the absence of hope.
Pain in Silence
Sometimes, Lina would look up to the treetops, as if praying for something—anything—that could help. A miracle. A healing. A second chance.
But no help came.
The baby’s small limbs twitched as it tried to nurse again. Lina watched helplessly. She would guide the baby gently, positioning her breast near its mouth, hoping against all hope that this time, there would be milk. But the baby would suckle weakly for a moment, then stop, too tired to try again.
Other mothers sometimes looked at Lina. A few came near, curious, sniffing her baby, then moving on. They had their own little ones to care for. Lina didn’t expect anything from them—only understanding. But even that was rare in the wild.
Her eyes, once alert and full of life, were now filled with tears. Not human tears, but silent ones. The kind that live deep behind the eyes and pour into the heart instead of the face. Her body sagged. Her soul wept.
Hope in Desperation
On the fourth day, something strange happened. Lina walked slowly toward another mother, one who had a healthy, chubby baby. That mother, startled, bared her teeth and hissed. But Lina didn’t try to fight. She simply sat there. Quietly. Watching.
She watched as the other baby latched onto its mother and drank happily. Lina’s baby stirred in her arms. It had not cried in hours now—too weak to make a sound.
Lina moved closer again, gently, slowly, with her head lowered. The other mother growled, warning her. But this time, Lina dared to try something unthinkable: she held her baby out, ever so slightly, as if asking—begging—for help.
The other mother shrieked, bared her fangs, and leapt away into the tree canopy with her baby clinging to her fur. The troop stirred and looked. Lina was left standing alone, heart shattered all over again. No one would feed a baby that wasn’t their own.
But what else could she do?
Fading Light
That night, the jungle grew cold. Lina curled herself around her baby, holding it tight to keep it warm. She barely moved. Her own body was getting weaker from lack of food, but the pain inside was far greater than any hunger.
Her baby barely moved anymore.
It didn’t cry.
It didn’t search.
It just lay there—small, still, silent.
Lina groomed it gently, licking its soft fur, cleaning every inch as if that could bring it back to life. As if her love alone could nourish it.
The wind rustled through the trees. The moonlight filtered down through the branches, and Lina sat there, rocking her baby in her arms like a lullaby of sorrow.
She didn’t sleep. She didn’t eat.
She just held on.
Morning of Goodbye
When the sun rose again, the jungle woke as usual. But for Lina, nothing was the same.
Her baby was no longer breathing.
Still, she held it.
Still, she groomed it.
Still, she loved it.
She didn’t accept the truth, not at first. She carried it on her chest as if it were still alive. She swayed from side to side, rocked it, whispered in her own monkey way. Some of the troop looked on, confused. A few came closer, sniffed, then moved away. They knew.
But Lina did not let go.
Not yet.
Hours passed. The weight of her baby grew heavier—not in pounds, but in sorrow.
And finally, with a deep, slow breath, she sat beneath a tree, gently placed her baby on the grass, and sat beside it. She looked at it one last time—those soft, closed eyes, the tiny fingers, the silence.
Then she let out a low, soft cry. A sound so rare, so broken, that the jungle seemed to pause for a moment.
And she walked away.
Just a few steps.
Then she looked back.
And walked a few more.
She didn’t run. She didn’t forget. She simply carried the pain inside her heart and moved forward.
Because that’s what mothers do.
Even when their bodies fail.
Even when their hearts are broken.
They carry on—with love that never dies.
Epilogue: The Silent Suffering of the Wild
This story is not fiction for many wild mothers. It happens in jungles, forests, and even in urban monkey colonies every day. A mother without milk can do nothing but love, protect, and watch her baby slowly fade.
In nature, there is no doctor, no formula, no donation center.
Just instinct.
And heartbreak.
This story is for all the unseen mothers out there—animal or human—who give everything, even when they have nothing left to give.
Their love is endless.
Even when it ends in silence.
