“When Her Baby Was Gone”
The sun had barely touched the tops of the trees when the first cries were heard. They were small, weak sounds — not the loud, demanding wails of a healthy newborn, but the soft, broken squeaks of a baby who was already struggling. The forest listened in silence, the birds pausing mid-song. On a thick branch above the jungle floor, a mother monkey sat still, her arms wrapped protectively around her newborn baby.
She had named him Kio, in her own way — through soft grunts and gentle touches. He was tiny, his limbs thin, his head still damp from birth. His eyes barely opened. But to her, he was everything. Her first baby.
Her name was Sela.
Sela had waited many seasons to become a mother. She had watched others in the troop carry their babies with pride, grooming them, playing with them, guarding them from dangers. She had longed for this day — to feel a baby pressed against her chest, to hear the tiny heartbeat that echoed under her own.
And now he was here.
But something wasn’t right.
From the first moment, she could feel it. Kio’s body was colder than it should have been. He didn’t cling as tightly as newborns usually did. He barely suckled when she offered her milk. Still, Sela believed. She held him close, pressing him against her fur, willing her warmth into him. She licked his head softly, grooming every inch of his face. Every few minutes, she would whisper low, rumbling sounds into his ear, telling him in her own language, Stay with me. Please stay.
A Troop That Moved On
In the days that followed, the troop moved through the jungle as usual, but Sela fell behind. The others were focused on survival — finding fruit, keeping an eye out for snakes or leopards, teaching their young ones to jump from branch to branch. But Sela was consumed with Kio. She barely ate. Her eyes never left him.
Kio had not improved. His cries were growing weaker. He barely moved. His tiny hands no longer wrapped around her finger.
Other mothers noticed. One approached Sela and peered at Kio, then looked away, her face unreadable. A young male came too close, curious, and Sela bared her teeth with a fierce hiss. No one would touch him.
But as the sun set on the fifth day, Kio stopped crying altogether.
Sela didn’t understand at first. She nudged him gently. Waited. Pressed her face into his fur. She listened for the heartbeat — that tiny, soft rhythm she had fallen asleep to each night. But there was nothing. Just silence.
She shook him softly, calling out in low tones. Still nothing.
And then it happened.
The realization.
Kio was gone.
The Weight of Her Baby
Sela did not let go.
Even after his body grew stiff and cold, she carried him. She cradled him as if he were still alive, still breathing. Other monkeys noticed. Some kept their distance. Others looked with curiosity or discomfort. One young female reached out to touch Kio’s lifeless hand, and Sela growled, baring her teeth.
The troop’s leader, an older male with silver on his back, gave Sela a long look. In other circumstances, he might have forced her to leave the body behind. But something in her eyes held him still. Something ancient, something sadder than the forest had seen in a long time.
Sela became quieter. She no longer made sounds. She didn’t join in grooming. She didn’t forage. She simply sat, day after day, holding her dead baby in her arms.
When the Body Changes
As days passed, Kio’s tiny body began to change. Nature had no mercy, even for the dead. Insects found him. His fur lost its softness. His color changed. But Sela refused to see it.
She groomed him like she had before — gently pulling at imaginary tangles in his fur. She kissed his forehead. At night, she curled around him to keep him warm, even though there was no warmth left in return.
The troop moved slower now, waiting for her. Some members grew frustrated. A few young monkeys began mimicking Sela’s behavior, dragging leaves or sticks as if they were babies. But even in mockery, they understood something was happening. Something deep.
Grief.
The Moment the Sky Cried
On the tenth day, the sky broke open with heavy rain. Water pounded the canopy, pouring down in cold sheets. The troop huddled together under dense leaves, shivering. Sela remained apart, sitting alone on a thick branch, her body soaked, her arms still cradling Kio.
That evening, as the rain eased, she looked down at her baby and finally saw what had happened. The soft pink of his face had turned grey. His lips no longer curled. His body was stiff, and the smell of decay had begun to cling to her fur.
Something inside her broke.
She let out a low, keening cry — a sound that cut through the trees like a wound in the air. Birds startled and flew off. Even the young ones froze. It was not a cry of pain or fear.
It was the sound of a mother breaking.
She rocked back and forth, clutching her baby’s cold body to her chest, moaning softly. And for the first time in days, the others approached. One by one, they came close, not to judge, not to scold — but to sit beside her in silence.
Even the alpha male bowed his head.
Letting Go
The next morning, something shifted. Sela woke before dawn. Her arms still held Kio, but her eyes had changed. They were hollow, distant. She looked around at the troop as if she were seeing them for the first time.
Slowly, she climbed down to a low, mossy part of the forest, where a small stream flowed gently over smooth stones. She sat by the water’s edge and looked at her reflection. Kio’s lifeless body rested in her lap.
She reached into the stream and touched the water, then gently washed his face. She cleaned his hands, as if preparing him for a journey. Then, with trembling fingers, she placed him on the moss.
And she stared.
For a long time.
Then she did the unthinkable.
She walked away.
Only a few steps at first. Then more. She didn’t look back. Her shoulders were hunched. Her tail dragged behind her. But her arms were empty.
The Ache That Remains
Sela never truly recovered. In the weeks that followed, she rejoined the troop’s movements, ate when offered food, groomed others occasionally — but she was never the same. She became quieter, slower. Her eyes often wandered, as if searching the trees for something that had been lost.
Sometimes, she would sit by the same mossy patch near the stream and look out at nothing.
Sometimes, she would pick up small objects — leaves, twigs, fruit rinds — and cradle them for a few moments before setting them down.
The other monkeys left her in peace.
They understood.
A Memory That Lives in the Forest
In the jungle, life goes on quickly. Babies are born. Young ones learn to swing and leap. Rain comes and goes. But somewhere in the forest, there is a quiet place where the moss grows thick, and where the trees remember the sound of a mother’s cry.
Kio’s body was never found again — nature had taken him, as it always does. But his memory lived in his mother. In the way she paused at the sound of a baby’s cry. In the way she looked at other infants with longing and loss.
And in her heart, even though he was gone, he remained hers forever.
Final Thoughts: The Sadness of Animal Mothers
Many people believe that animals do not feel emotions the way humans do. But that belief is changing.
Studies and observations of primates, elephants, whales, and other intelligent animals show clear signs of grief, mourning, and emotional suffering after the death of a loved one. Mother monkeys, in particular, have been seen carrying the bodies of their dead babies for days, sometimes weeks — showing signs of depression, social withdrawal, and distress.
Sela’s story is not unique.
It is one of many stories hidden in the forests, where love and loss are as real as they are for us. The way she mourned her baby reminds us that the bond between a mother and her child transcends species, language, and even death.
Because love… doesn’t just end.
Even when the heartbeat stops.
