The Baby She Left Behind: A True Story of a Mother Monkey’s Cold Heart
In the dense forest near a rural village on the edge of Cambodia, where the warm breeze carries the scent of ripe fruits and the sound of birds echoes through the tall trees, a troop of macaque monkeys lived their wild, unpredictable lives. Among the troop was a young mother monkey named Lita, who had recently given birth to a tiny baby girl—fragile, helpless, and completely dependent on her.
But unlike the usual heartwarming scenes of motherly love and nurturing care that often bloom in the animal world, this story took a different, colder turn.
From the moment the baby monkey was born, she seemed to sense something was wrong. Her mother’s arms were not warm. Her eyes were not gentle. Lita looked at her newborn like she was a burden—a mistake.
The baby, still pink-skinned and weak, clung to her mother’s belly, her tiny fingers trying to hold on to what nature had promised would be her protector. But Lita didn’t wrap her arms around her baby. She didn’t groom her or cuddle her close like the other mother monkeys did with their little ones. She walked fast and shook her body, trying to rid herself of the clinging weight.
The troop noticed it too.
Other mothers sat in shaded corners, nursing their infants, gently picking lice from their fur, whispering the silent language of comfort. But Lita? She sat alone. Sometimes she walked far from the group, her baby still clinging desperately, face buried in her fur, hoping for milk—but Lita never gave it.
Her milk had come in, but she didn’t let the baby nurse. She often swatted the infant away, causing her to cry out in tiny, heartbreaking whimpers.
The other monkeys would glance over. Some curious, some confused, and some clearly disapproving. But no one interfered. It was nature’s way—some mothers simply rejected their young.
But this baby was different.
She didn’t give up.
Even when Lita ignored her, even when she pushed her off onto the dusty forest floor, the baby crawled back, inch by inch, eyes wide, mouth open, seeking warmth and food and love that would never come.
One morning, the sun had barely risen, and the trees were still cloaked in mist. The troop began to move toward the fruiting fig trees on the eastern side of the forest. One by one, the monkeys leaped from branch to branch, mothers carrying their babies tightly against their chests. Lita followed, but slower than the others. And that day, she did something cruel.
She stopped by a flat stone near the base of a tree. She looked down at the baby, who was clinging to her belly as always, barely hanging on. Then she grabbed the baby by the arm, peeled her off her chest, and set her down on the stone. Without even a glance back, Lita leapt into the trees and vanished into the canopy above.
The baby was alone.
She didn’t cry out right away. For a few seconds, she just sat there, stunned, blinking at the world around her. The wind rustled the grass, the forest buzzed with morning life, but the little monkey didn’t move. Her tiny chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.
Then came the soft, broken whimpers.
She tried to crawl. Her limbs were too weak. She tried to cry louder. But no one came.
A few minutes passed. A young male monkey came by, curious. He looked at the baby but didn’t touch her. He sniffed the air, then left.
By noon, the sun was high and hot. The stone had grown warm beneath her. The baby lay flat, exhausted and dehydrated. Her fur, still thin and new, offered little protection from the heat. Flies buzzed near her ears. Her eyes were crusted from tears.
In the trees above, Lita sat with the rest of the troop, munching on figs. Her face was calm, almost indifferent. She showed no signs of worry or sadness. No looking back.
Some older mothers looked down at the stone, saw the tiny figure still trying to move. One of them, an old female with a kind face and heavy eyes, grunted softly, almost like a sigh. But even she didn’t move to help.
That night, a light rain began to fall. The forest dimmed, and the chirping of frogs replaced the chattering monkeys. The baby still lay on the stone, soaked and shivering. Her belly grumbled from hunger, her cries now too weak to echo.
By morning, she had moved just a few inches from where she’d been abandoned. Her body was covered in dirt, her fur matted and wet. But she was alive.
Miraculously, she was alive.
A young female monkey, just entering adulthood, approached the stone cautiously. She had no baby of her own, but something in her seemed stirred by the sight of the tiny, broken creature. She leaned down, sniffed, and gently touched the baby’s back.
The baby flinched but didn’t resist.
The young female looked around. Lita wasn’t near. No other adult challenged her. She reached out again and scooped the baby into her arms.
The baby clung to her immediately, her tiny arms wrapping around the young monkey’s chest like she’d found her last hope.
The troop moved again that day, and the young female carried the baby with her. She had no milk to give, but she groomed the baby, cleaned her dirty fur, and kept her warm through the night. She let her sleep curled against her stomach, something Lita never did.
But days passed, and without milk, the baby grew weaker.
Lita saw this. She watched from a branch as the young female tried again and again to calm the hungry baby’s cries. But still, she did nothing.
There was no explanation for Lita’s behavior. She wasn’t ill. She wasn’t injured. She simply didn’t care. Some monkeys, like some humans, reject motherhood. No reason. No trauma. Just cold disconnection.
On the fifth day, the baby stopped crying. Her eyes had grown dull. Her movements slowed to almost nothing. The young female still held her, refusing to let her go. She groomed her soft head, touched her face gently, almost like mourning before death.
That night, the troop slept near the river. The stars were bright, and the forest was quiet.
At dawn, the young female sat alone, holding the baby in her arms.
But the baby was no longer breathing.
She sat with her all morning. She didn’t move even when the others did. She kept the baby’s body close, rocking gently, silently, like a mother who never got the chance to be one.
Lita sat just a few meters away, plucking berries from a bush. Her eyes briefly met the scene. Then she turned away.
Later that day, the young female finally placed the baby’s body beneath a thick bush, tucking her under leaves and soft branches. A quiet funeral. No cries. No rituals. Just a fading goodbye in the language of the wild.
The troop moved on.
Life in the forest does not stop for grief.
But deep in the trees, where the stone still lay, where the cries once echoed and tiny hands had once reached up for love, a silence remained. A mark. A memory.
And perhaps, somewhere in Lita’s heart, buried under the coldness and instinct, there lived a piece of guilt she could never name.
Or maybe not.
Sometimes, the saddest stories are not the ones where death comes from sickness or violence, but the ones where love never came at all.
