In the dense green jungle canopy, the early morning sun filtered through the thick leaves like scattered gold. Birds chirped softly in the trees, and the forest seemed peaceful. But beneath that calm lay a world of complex emotions, survival, and heartbreak.
Among the many monkey families living in this tropical haven was one troubled pair—a mother monkey named Lika and her fragile, tiny newborn, whom others in the group had started calling “Nino.”
Lika was a strong, adult female monkey, known in the troop for her independence and toughness. She was not one to show much affection, even during mating seasons. While many mother monkeys doted on their little ones, Lika was distant. No one in the group truly understood her heart, but many had noticed that she changed after losing a baby long ago. Since then, she’d grown colder.
When Lika gave birth to Nino, many hoped the soft warmth of a newborn would bring back some tenderness in her. But the opposite seemed to happen.
From the very first day, something was off.
Nino was small, much smaller than the average baby. His limbs were thin, his fur patchy, and his cries were soft and weak. While other mothers immediately cradled and nursed their babies, Lika sat far from the rest, her arms wrapped around herself, looking unsure—almost annoyed.
At first, she carried Nino on her belly, as most mothers do, but her grip was loose. When he slipped, she didn’t scramble to grab him right away. He would tumble softly onto the ground, crying faintly, and she would only half-heartedly lift him back up.
Other mothers watched from a distance, concerned. One young female even tried to groom Nino when Lika wasn’t looking, but Lika hissed sharply and pushed her away. Something was broken in her spirit. She wasn’t bonding.
Days passed, and the troop moved deeper into the forest. Food was plenty—ripe fruits, insects, fresh leaves. The other mothers were active, their babies clinging tightly to their fur as they leaped from branch to branch. But Lika was often seen sitting alone, her eyes distant. Nino, too weak to cling tightly, would fall often and lie on the jungle floor, crying, crawling, reaching up with tiny arms.
Then came the first truly painful moment.
One morning, as the sun burned hotter, Lika approached a wide branch with Nino clinging weakly to her chest. She paused, looked around, and without a sound, peeled him off her body and placed him on the thick branch. At first, some thought she was simply letting him rest.
But then—she walked away.
Not slowly. She leaped—once, twice, into the higher branches, vanishing into the trees, leaving Nino behind.
Nino began to cry. His little eyes darted around. His thin arms reached out. But no one came. The jungle is not kind to lonely babies.
Luckily, one of the older female monkeys named Mira, a gentle mother with twins of her own, saw this. She rushed over, picked Nino up, and tried to soothe him. She called out to Lika with loud chirps, alerting the group.
When Lika finally returned, Mira tried to hand Nino back, gently pushing the little one toward her. Lika didn’t look happy. She grabbed Nino, but not with love—more like she was forced to take back something she didn’t want.
The following days only grew worse.
Nino was always falling. He wasn’t getting enough milk—his ribs began to show. His cries became more desperate, but Lika often ignored him, sometimes shoving him away when he tried to crawl to her.
And then, the most heartbreaking moment of all came.
It was late afternoon. A sudden downpour had drenched the trees, and the troop had taken shelter in a grove of low trees near a rocky hill. As the rain slowed, the monkeys began grooming and shaking off the water. Nino, shivering and soaked, crawled slowly toward his mother who sat on a rock, grooming herself.
He reached her feet. He raised his arms. He just wanted to be held.
Lika looked at him with an expression that shocked even the elder monkeys.
Disgust.
She grabbed him—not gently—and threw him a few feet away.
Nino hit the ground with a soft thud and let out a weak cry. He didn’t understand. His mother, the only warmth he knew in the world, had rejected him so fully.
The troop went silent. A few juveniles gasped. One young male even made a small angry noise at Lika.
But she didn’t care.
She climbed high into the trees, away from everyone. Away from him.
That night was cold. The rain had soaked the jungle, and the wind blew through the trees. Most babies slept tucked against their mothers, warm and safe. But not Nino.
He lay curled on the roots of a tree, alone. He whimpered quietly, too tired to cry loudly.
By dawn, Mira could no longer take it.
She approached slowly, picked up Nino with her soft hands, and nestled him between her own twins. Though she didn’t have enough milk to feed three, she gave him warmth, comfort, and care.
Nino snuggled close to her chest and closed his eyes.
Lika watched from above, perched on a branch. Her face was unreadable. Maybe she felt guilt. Maybe relief. Or maybe—nothing at all.
But one thing was clear: she had rejected her baby.
Over the next few days, Mira and two other females took turns caring for Nino. They tried feeding him soft fruit, mashed leaves, and shared body warmth. But it wasn’t enough. Nino was weak. His breathing was shallow. His eyes often looked vacant, tired beyond his age.
Lika never returned for him.
Even when he cried loudly, calling out, hoping—she never came down.
Some say it was because Nino was born sick, that Lika sensed he wouldn’t survive. Others whispered that she had too much pain inside from the past, and couldn’t love again. But no one knew for sure.
Eventually, Nino stopped moving as much. He stayed curled in Mira’s arms, breathing softly.
On his final day, the sun was bright again. The troop had moved to a new grove with plenty of food and play. Mira held him close, rocking gently. Nino opened his eyes once, blinked slowly, and looked around one last time.
He didn’t cry. He didn’t reach out. He just let out a quiet sigh… and then, he was still.
The jungle fell silent for a moment.
Mira held him longer, not ready to let go.
Some monkeys approached, gently sniffing the small body, their faces solemn. The troop understood what had happened.
Lika stayed far in the trees, pretending not to notice. But for the first time in many days, a tear rolled from the corner of her eye. Maybe too late.
That evening, the troop held a quiet farewell. They placed Nino’s body under a tree, covered with soft leaves and petals, a quiet tribute in the wild.
He never got the love he deserved from the one who should have given it first. But in the end, others tried to fill that empty space.
And maybe, in his last days, he knew some warmth—even if it wasn’t from his mother.
A Jungle Truth
The jungle may seem wild and without emotion, but it is full of stories—of love, pain, rejection, and survival.
Not every mother is perfect. Not every baby gets the start they deserve.
But even in the harshest corners of the forest, compassion still lives—in the hearts of those willing to care for the forgotten, the rejected, and the weak.
Nino’s short life was one of struggle. But it left a mark. Even the coldest mother, even Lika, could not forget.
And maybe, someday, another baby will come—and maybe her heart will open again.
But for now, the forest remembers Nino—the baby who just wanted his mother’s love.
