In the heart of the green jungle, where life swung wildly between joy and danger, a heartbreaking silence sat beneath the thick canopy—broken only by the desperate sobs of a baby monkey.
He was tiny, no larger than a coconut, his fur still soft like clouds and eyes too big for his face. His cries were not from hunger alone, nor fear—but from something deeper: neglect. A wound that doesn’t bleed but cuts the soul.
Nearby, his mother rested on a sturdy branch. Her face, cold and unreadable, showed no signs of concern. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t touch him. Didn’t care.
For days now, this baby had cried.
He cried when the other babies were cradled lovingly by their mothers. He cried when he tried to climb closer to her, only to be pushed away. And he cried most painfully at night, when the forest grew dark and cold, and all he wanted was to be wrapped in her arms—but was left curled up alone, shivering under the leaves.
The mother monkey wasn’t cruel in the way predators are. She didn’t hit or scream. She simply ignored him. Her eyes would look past him as if he didn’t exist. Sometimes she moved away when he crawled toward her. Other times, she snatched fruit from his hands without a glance, leaving him with nothing but hurt and confusion.
To the baby, this wasn’t just loneliness. It was rejection.
He didn’t understand why she wouldn’t love him. Was he too small? Too weak? Did he do something wrong when he was born?
He didn’t know. All he knew was that he cried, and no one came.
The jungle troop carried on with their daily life. Mothers groomed their young, swinging joyfully from tree to tree, feeding and playing. The baby would sit at the edge of a branch, watching with hollow eyes. Sometimes he tried to join, reaching out with tiny hands for another mother to notice him. But most mothers were too busy with their own. Some gave him a small nudge or a distant look of pity, but none took him in.
And his own mother? She climbed higher, as if she couldn’t hear his cries.
He began to cry louder, his voice hoarse from the strain. It wasn’t just a call for help—it was a plea. A cry that shook the heart of the trees. A sound of a soul breaking.
“Eee-eee!”
“Eee-eee-eeee!”
No answer.
The wind carried his sobs through the leaves. Birds stopped chirping. Even the insects buzzed more softly.
The baby monkey crawled closer to his mother again, this time trying to nuzzle his head against her leg. Just a touch. Just something warm to make the crying stop.
But with a swift motion, she pushed him away—not violently, but firmly. Enough to say: you are not wanted.
He stumbled backward, his little hands clutching at nothing. His breath came in sharp little gasps, his lips quivering, and his chest rising and falling with the weight of sadness too big for his small body.
He cried again. This time softer. Broken. Like he was starting to believe that no one would ever come.
The other monkeys moved on, and the mother monkey sat with the rest of the adults, grooming herself. Not once did she turn around.
The baby didn’t follow them this time. He stayed behind, curling up beneath a drooping vine, his arms hugging his knees. His sobs faded into silent tears, until finally… nothing.
Only the distant calls of birds and the rustle of wind through trees filled the space where his cries once were.
A young female monkey, barely grown herself, approached him slowly. She looked at him with kind eyes, unsure of what to do. She wasn’t a mother. She wasn’t ready. But something inside her stirred—a pull of empathy, of instinct.
She sat beside him, not touching, just present.
The baby peeked up at her. For a brief moment, his eyes lit up—not with joy, but with the fragile hope of a child who has cried for too long.
She reached out and gently stroked his back.
And for the first time that day, he didn’t cry.
The next morning, the mother monkey once again climbed away, uninterested in the baby. She didn’t notice the soft steps of the young female beside him. She didn’t see how the baby, though still sad, now had someone to follow. A shadow of a new bond was forming.
The baby still cried—but less now. His sobs were no longer empty. Because now, someone was listening.
Some days, he would still chase after his mother, only to be ignored. But each time he returned more quickly to the young female, who began to groom him gently, feed him little pieces of fruit, and let him sleep beside her.
He would never understand why his birth mother didn’t care. And that pain, that scar, would always remain. But the jungle has its quiet miracles too. And sometimes, love finds a way—even if it’s not the love we first cry for.
In the wild, some mother monkeys reject their young for reasons we still struggle to understand. Illness, stress, inexperience—sometimes even favoritism. But behind each of these situations is a baby who doesn’t understand why he isn’t loved. A baby who cries, not because he is weak, but because he longs to be held.
To hear those cries is to witness the purest form of heartbreak—a voice calling out into a world that won’t answer.
But sometimes, the forest answers in other ways.
And sometimes, that’s enough to begin healing.
