High above the forest floor, nestled in the emerald canopy, a small baby monkey clung to a slender branch. His tiny body trembled—not from the chill of the breeze, but from fear. His mother, the one creature who should have been his warmth, his shelter, had just yanked him roughly by the arm again. Her sharp eyes glared at him, full of frustration rather than love.
The baby squeaked softly, a cry no louder than the rustle of leaves. But it carried the weight of sorrow. His name, if he had one, was known only to her. Yet, even his name never passed her lips—not in affection, not in comfort. Only growls, slaps, and harsh pulls.
The troop had long moved deeper into the forest that morning, chasing after ripe figs and fresh shoots. But the mother lingered behind, her baby slow and clumsy. He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t climb fast. He often tripped on vines. His little fingers, still learning the world, didn’t grip as tightly. And perhaps that, more than anything, irritated her.
“Why can’t you just be strong?” her actions seemed to say.
She wasn’t always like this. In the very beginning, when the baby was only a few days old, there had been warmth. Her body wrapped around him at night. Her chest fed him milk. He remembered the safety, the rhythm of her heartbeat, the feeling of her fur brushing against his face. But that feeling had faded.
Now, her touch was only to push him, or to snatch him away roughly if he wandered too far. Sometimes, when he cried out, she shoved him away, as if his voice itself was unbearable.
The baby didn’t understand.
All he wanted was to be close. To nuzzle against her fur like he used to. To feel her hand gently pull him in when the world felt too big. But those days felt gone, like the warmth of the sun hidden behind thick clouds.
Today, things got worse.
He had slipped from a low branch, not far enough to fall hard, but enough to spook him. He let out a loud cry of panic as he dangled by one hand. His mother came—yes, she came—but not with soothing words or comfort. Instead, she grabbed him by the scruff and yanked him harshly back up, then gave him a smack on the back.
Her mouth opened wide, showing her teeth. A warning. A threat.
The baby whimpered and crawled into a corner of the branch, his back against a knot of bark, tail curled tightly around himself. Tears welled in his eyes. Real, tiny tears. Not from the pain—but from confusion.
Why was Mama so angry all the time?
The trees around him didn’t answer. The wind blew softly, rustling the green leaves overhead. A butterfly flitted by. Far below, the sounds of other monkeys echoed—squeals, laughter, thuds of movement. But here, in this lonely corner of the jungle, the baby monkey sat in silence.
He missed touch. Not the rough grabs. Not the angry shoves. But the gentle nuzzles he’d seen other mothers give their babies. A little lick on the forehead. A warm embrace. The way another mother nearby rocked her baby slowly while the infant drifted to sleep.
Why didn’t he get that?
His little body ached—not from bruises, but from longing. His heart beat faster when his mother returned with food. Not because of the food—but because he hoped maybe this time, she would share kindly. But again, she turned her back, eating quickly, keeping him away with a slap of her hand when he reached too eagerly.
He cried again, quietly. Just a little whimper, hoping she might hear and feel something… anything. But her eyes stayed blank. Cold.
The truth was, no one knew what changed her. Maybe it was stress. Maybe she had lost another baby before and now didn’t allow herself to love again. Maybe this baby reminded her of pain. Maybe her own mother had never shown her softness. Or maybe she just didn’t know how to love.
But for the baby, those reasons didn’t matter.
He only knew that he hurt inside.
Night fell slowly, casting shadows across the canopy. The mother monkey sat on a thick branch, grooming herself with practiced indifference. The baby tried again—timidly crawling over, not crying this time, just hoping.
He reached out and gently touched her arm.
For a second, she didn’t move.
And then—something changed.
She looked at him. Not with rage. Not even with tenderness. But with something like hesitation.
He froze, watching her eyes.
She didn’t slap him.
Instead, she let his hand rest there. Then, slowly, reluctantly, she pulled him close. Not tight. Not warmly. But close enough that he could rest his little head on her leg.
It wasn’t perfect.
But for him, it was everything.
He sighed, curling up, exhaustion taking over. His body relaxed for the first time all day. And even if tomorrow she might be cold again, tonight—just tonight—he felt a flicker of the love he had been crying for.
A flicker of hope.
In the wild, not all mothers are nurturing. Some struggle with the roles nature gave them. And some babies, through no fault of their own, feel the heartbreak of rejection. But even the tiniest acts of tenderness—a moment of softness—can be a lifeline.
And so, beneath the stars, a little baby monkey slept in the arms of a mother who didn’t always know how to love—but tried, if only for a night.
