The Lonely Mother and the Baby Kitty
In a quiet forest edge between a village and the deep jungle, there lived an old monkey mother named Luma. She had once been part of a big troop—full of life, chaos, and community. But age, rivalry, and time had pushed her aside. Now she was alone, an old female with graying fur, slow limbs, and a heart weighed down by memories of the babies she had lost.
Luma had raised several infants over the years. But one by one, nature had taken them. Some fell sick. Others were stolen by predators. And the last, her most beloved baby, died during a stormy night when Luma couldn’t keep him warm enough. Since then, she had wandered the outskirts of the forest, quiet and distant, spending her days in the trees, watching other mothers cuddle their young with eyes full of longing.
One morning, while foraging near the village edge, Luma heard a strange, soft sound—like crying, but not like a monkey’s baby cry. Curious, she climbed down and followed the tiny noise. In the grassy clearing near a woodpile, hidden behind a broken bamboo fence, was a tiny orange-and-white creature.
A baby kitten.
Its eyes were only half-open, and it cried weakly. The mother cat was nowhere to be seen. Maybe she had gone to find food. Maybe she had left the baby behind by mistake. Or maybe… she wasn’t coming back at all.
Luma stood over the kitten, tilting her head. It was fragile, its tiny body trembling in the morning chill. Something deep inside Luma stirred—a pain, an instinct, a memory. She reached out and gently touched the kitten’s tiny head.
The kitten responded with a soft mewl and tried to nuzzle closer.
For a long moment, Luma just sat there.
Then, very slowly, she picked up the kitten in her arms.
At first, Luma only planned to stay with the kitten a little while. Just to keep it warm. Just until its real mother came back. But hours passed, then the sun began to set, and there was still no sign of the mother cat.
Luma, not willing to leave the helpless thing alone in the cold night, made a decision.
She took the baby kitten with her into the trees.
Her old hands shook as she climbed. Her back ached. But she moved slowly and carefully, cradling the kitten as if it were her own baby. The jungle shadows grew darker as she found a safe branch high up in a tall tree.
There, she wrapped the kitten close to her chest and curled her body around it to keep it warm.
The days passed.
Luma didn’t return to her usual foraging grounds. She stayed near the village, stealing scraps of food—pieces of bread, fruit, even boiled rice left near doorsteps or tossed into the yard. She would eat a little, but most of it she brought back to the tree where the kitten waited.
She tried to groom the kitten as she would her own baby. She licked its fur gently, patted its back, and carried it in her arms. The kitten, still weak and tiny, responded with purrs and nuzzles, snuggling close to the warmth and safety of the monkey’s embrace.
Villagers began to notice.
Children pointed up at the trees and laughed. “Look! A monkey with a kitten!” Some threw bananas, others just watched in amazement. But Luma didn’t care. Her world was small now—only herself and the baby she had claimed as her own.
But one afternoon, something changed.
The real mother cat returned.
She was a lean, short-haired feline with wild yellow eyes. Her belly was still sagging from giving birth. She must have been searching for her baby all along. Now, drawn by the kitten’s scent or cry, she had found it.
The cat stood at the base of the tree, meowing loudly.
Luma, from above, heard the sound and froze.
She looked down and saw the mother cat pacing back and forth beneath the tree, looking up, calling.
The kitten in Luma’s arms stirred. It let out a cry—a high, familiar sound. The mother cat answered it with a desperate meow.
Something twisted inside Luma’s chest.
She looked at the baby, then down at the mother, then back again.
Her old heart hurt.
She knew the baby didn’t truly belong to her.
But she loved it. Deeply. Fiercely. As if her own blood ran through its tiny body. In this kitten, she had found healing. She had found purpose again.
She had found the feeling of being a mother.
And now, it felt like someone was trying to take that away.
The mother cat climbed a few feet up the tree but slipped down. She wasn’t built for trees. Her cries became louder, more pleading. Luma clutched the kitten closer. Her eyes narrowed. She felt the old, protective instincts rising in her. No one—no one—would take her baby from her again.
With a slow, tense movement, she began climbing higher.
The cat watched helplessly as Luma disappeared into the canopy with the kitten.
The villagers saw this too.
Some cheered, others grew worried.
“The monkey stole the kitten!” someone shouted.
“No, she’s protecting it!” another argued.
Soon, several people gathered beneath the tree, pointing and calling out. One boy tried to throw a stick to scare Luma down. An old woman shouted at him to stop. Confusion and noise filled the air.
High above, Luma curled her body tighter around the kitten.
Her arms shook.
Her old eyes blinked slowly.
She was afraid.
She had lived a long life, survived many dangers, lost so much. But now that she had found this one small thing that brought her joy, it seemed the world wanted to take it from her.
She didn’t understand human voices. She didn’t understand the words of the cat. All she knew was this: she loved the baby. And love, for Luma, had always come with loss.
That night, the storm came.
Heavy rain.
Cold winds.
Thunder shaking the trees.
Luma huddled in the highest branch, her body soaked, her arms trembling as she tried to keep the kitten dry. The baby mewed softly, eyes still closed most of the time, unaware of the storm’s danger. Luma pulled leaves around them, tried to form a shelter. Her body shook, but she did not let go.
She would not let go.
Not again.
Morning came with sunlight cutting through the clouds.
The storm passed, but Luma was exhausted.
Her hands were raw.
Her limbs barely moved.
But the kitten was safe. Tired, but warm and dry, thanks to the old monkey’s body shielding it all night long.
Down below, the mother cat had waited the entire night.
And she was still waiting.
Something inside Luma changed then.
Maybe it was the storm.
Maybe it was exhaustion.
Maybe it was the memory of her own babies, taken too soon.
She looked at the kitten again. It had grown stronger over the past days. Its eyes were open now. Its legs stretched. It squirmed when hungry. It was healthy.
It was ready for its real mother.
Tears—if monkeys could cry—would’ve fallen from her eyes.
Slowly, with shaking limbs, Luma began to climb down.
The villagers, seeing her descent, gathered in silence.
The mother cat stood near the tree, tail twitching, eyes locked on Luma.
And then—
Luma reached the bottom branch, looked at the cat, and gently placed the kitten on a thick vine near the trunk.
She took one last look at the baby.
Then, she turned and climbed away.
The kitten mewed, confused.
But the mother cat rushed in, nudging and licking and wrapping her body around her baby with a cry so soft it was almost a whisper.
The reunion was complete.
The crowd murmured.
Some clapped.
Others wiped tears.
But high above, in another tree, Luma sat alone again.
Watching.
Remembering.
The days that followed were quiet.
The mother cat and her kitten were seen often near the village, always together.
Luma, however, returned to the forest edge.
She was slower now.
Her body more tired.
But her heart…
Her heart had healed just a little.
She had loved.
And this time, for once in her life, she had let go without loss.
Not because she had to.
But because she chose to.
Because that was what real love looked like.
