The baby cried long before the milk came.
He lay on the rough ground, his tiny body twisting with hunger. His stomach burned, empty and aching, and his mouth opened wide again and again, calling out in sharp, desperate cries. His voice cracked, but he did not stop.
“Ahhh… ahhh…”
Nearby, his mother paced back and forth. Her tail flicked angrily. Her face was tight with stress, eyes sharp and restless. She was tired—tired of searching for food, tired of watching danger, tired of everything pressing down on her at once.
And the crying made it worse.
“Quiet,” she snapped, turning away.
But the baby could not be quiet. Hunger does not listen. His cries grew louder, faster, filled with panic. He kicked his small legs and reached out with shaking hands, begging without words.
🍼
The mother growled softly, irritation rising in her chest. She felt pulled in too many directions—other monkeys nearby, noises in the trees, threats she could not ignore. Feeding him now felt like another demand when she already had nothing left.
She delayed.
The baby screamed.
Tears streamed down his face, soaking his fur. His mouth stayed open, his tongue dry, searching for milk that did not come. Each second felt like forever to him. His body shook from the effort of crying so hard.
“Ma… ma…”
The sound pierced her ears.
Still, she waited.
The baby’s cries began to change. They lost strength, becoming broken and hoarse. His chest heaved unevenly. He rolled onto his side, too weak to sit upright now, but still crying, still calling.
Anger flickered in the mother’s eyes—but beneath it, something else stirred.
Fear.
She turned and looked at him properly for the first time in a while. Really looked.
He was smaller than she remembered. His belly was sunken. His hands trembled. His cries were no longer loud—just raw, painful sounds dragged out of an exhausted body.
Her anger faltered.
She moved closer.
The baby sensed her instantly. With the last of his strength, he cried louder again, lifting his head weakly and reaching out. His mouth opened wide, desperate, trusting.
She hesitated—just a moment too long.
Then she pulled him to her chest.
The baby latched on immediately, frantic. He drank fast, too fast, choking slightly as milk finally reached his empty stomach. Some spilled down his chin, but he did not care. He sucked desperately, afraid it would disappear again.
The mother winced.
She adjusted her grip, holding him more firmly now, pressing him close. Her breathing slowed as she felt how light he was in her arms.
Why did I wait?
The baby continued drinking, his body shaking at first, then slowly calming. His cries faded into small, weak sounds between swallows. His hands clutched her fur tightly, afraid to let go.
She stayed still.
Her anger drained away, replaced by heavy guilt. She lowered her head, resting her cheek against his back. The baby’s heartbeat was fast, but steady. Too fast—but alive.
When he finally stopped drinking, exhaustion claimed him instantly. His mouth fell open slightly, milk still on his lips. He slept against her chest, completely spent.
The mother held him quietly.
The forest felt different now—too quiet. She watched his tiny body rise and fall, counting each breath, afraid of what might have happened if she had waited longer.
Her tail wrapped protectively around him.
She had given the milk late.
Too late for comfort.
Almost too late for safety.
The baby slept, unaware of how close he had come to fading.
And the mother stayed still, anger gone, learning the hard truth too late—
A baby’s cry is not noise.
It is a warning.
