In the heart of a quiet forest, where the tall trees sway gently in the wind and the birds sing above the canopy, a heartbreaking scene unfolds under the shadow of the branches. A tiny baby monkey, barely a few months old, sits quietly on the forest floor, her small body trembling with each sob that escapes her lips. Her cries are soft but full of sorrow—each one a painful echo of confusion and loneliness.
Her name is Lika. She’s just beginning to explore the world around her, still clumsy with her steps, still learning to hold on tightly to branches, and still completely dependent on the warm love of her mother. But today, something feels terribly different. Her mother, Rani, isn’t looking at her with the usual gentleness in her eyes. She seems upset—distant, even cold.
Earlier in the morning, Lika had been playing near a fallen log. She saw a butterfly and chased it with excitement, laughing in her monkey way, full of energy. But in that moment of distraction, she strayed too far. When she turned back, she couldn’t find her mother. Panic filled her chest, and she began to scream. It didn’t take long for Rani to come rushing to the sound—her face filled with fear.
But when she found Lika, something changed. Relief turned to anger. Maybe it was because Rani was scared. Maybe she felt Lika had been careless. Instead of comforting her baby, she scolded her. She pulled away when Lika reached for her. She refused to nurse her. She turned her back and climbed up a tree, leaving the little one sobbing under the shade.
Lika didn’t understand. She didn’t mean to make her mother upset. All she wanted was to play, to chase the butterfly, to feel the wind on her face. And now, the only thing she feels is pain.
Her tiny hands wipe her teary eyes. She tries to climb up the tree where her mother sits, but she’s too small. She slips and falls again. Her cries grow louder, calling out not just for help—but for love.
Other monkeys in the group glance over, but no one interferes. It is not their place. In monkey society, mothers have their own ways. Sometimes they need space. Sometimes they punish. But for a baby like Lika, that space feels like a broken heart.
As the sun begins to dip lower in the sky, casting golden light across the forest, Rani finally looks down. She sees her daughter, still crying, still waiting. There’s a moment—just a pause—where her expression softens. She begins to climb down slowly.
Maybe she will forgive. Maybe she will hold her baby again. Because no matter how angry a mother might be, the bond between them is not so easily broken. And no matter how small, a baby’s tears still carry a powerful message:
“I need you. I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me.”
And maybe, just maybe, that message has finally reached her mother’s heart.
