The forest was alive with sound—the rustle of leaves, the cries of distant birds, the chatter of other monkeys moving between branches. Yet, in one corner of that green world, a small tragedy was quietly unfolding. A mother monkey, her face hard with fury, sat on a thick, knotted branch, her baby clinging helplessly to her side. Instead of warmth and protection, the infant found only pain and rejection.
The baby was tiny, fragile, its fur soft and patchy, its eyes wide with the innocence of a creature that knew only dependence. It wanted nothing more than to rest against its mother, to feel the safety of her heartbeat. But the mother was not gentle. Her patience had long been broken. Every cry from the infant seemed to drive her deeper into anger.
With sudden violence, she yanked the baby away from her chest. The infant squealed in terror as her sharp fingers dug into its thin arms. She shook it roughly, its head snapping back and forth with the cruel motion. The cries became shrill, heartbreaking, echoing through the trees, but the mother did not relent. Instead, she struck the baby against her side, pushing it down onto the branch as though it were nothing but a burden.
The little one tried to crawl back, its hands trembling, its voice weak with desperate whimpers. But the mother bared her teeth and slapped it aside again. The sound of its tiny body hitting the wood was a sickening thud, and the baby gasped, struggling to breathe. The other monkeys nearby glanced over, uneasy, but none interfered. In the wild, such scenes were not uncommon, and survival often overpowered sympathy.
The baby’s cries softened into pitiful whines as it reached for her once more, hoping against hope that she might relent. Instead, she grabbed it by the scruff of its neck and dangled it in the air. Her grip was merciless, and the infant kicked helplessly, twisting and flailing in fear. For a moment, she swung it back and forth like an unwanted object, her eyes filled not with love but with cold frustration.
When the baby tried to reach her face, seeking comfort, she bit down on its tiny arm. The infant let out a piercing scream, its body shuddering from the shock of pain. She released her jaws only to push it down again, pinning it to the branch with her hand. The baby writhed beneath her, its chest heaving, its voice breaking into sharp sobs. The more it cried, the harsher she became, as though punishing it for needing her.
Hours seemed to pass in that endless cycle of torment. She would shove it away, strike it, bite it, and then drag it back roughly when it tried to crawl off. The baby, too weak to resist, could only cry until its voice cracked into silence. Its body grew limp from exhaustion, its small arms trembling as it clung faintly to the bark.
And yet, even in its pain, it still reached for her. The instinct to seek its mother’s warmth was stronger than the memory of her cruelty. It pressed its tiny face against her leg, hoping she might soften, but she only kicked it off again. Each rejection was a wound deeper than the last—not only to its body but to the fragile spirit within.
By the end of the day, the baby lay curled on the branch, its breaths shallow, its eyes glazed with exhaustion and hurt. The mother sat above it, grooming herself as though nothing had happened, her anger drained but her heart unmoved. The baby whimpered once more, a faint sound, almost too weak to hear. It still longed for her embrace, but she gave none.
In the vast, indifferent forest, the cries of the infant faded into the air, swallowed by the endless noise of life. What remained was the image of a mother who could not love, and a baby who suffered simply because it wanted to be loved. The saddest part was not the bruises, not the bites, not even the exhaustion. It was the hope that never died in the baby’s heart—hope that one day, the mother might finally hold it with kindness.
