The afternoon sun poured gently through the trees, dappling the ground in shifting patches of light. A small family of monkeys gathered together on a high branch, the mother sitting proudly in the center. In her arms, she cradled the tiniest new baby—still fragile, still unable to cling properly on its own. Her eyes softened every time she looked down at the newborn, adjusting her hold to keep it warm and safe.
But just a few feet away, another baby monkey, only slightly older, sat watching with wide, troubled eyes. This was her older child, who had until recently been the very center of the mother’s world. She had once received all the hugs, all the milk, all the attention. Now, everything had changed. The mother’s arms were full of the new sibling, and she hardly noticed the older baby at all.
At first, the baby monkey just stared. Her tiny lips quivered, her little hands clutched at the branch as if it could give her comfort. She let out soft, pitiful whimpers, trying to draw her mother’s gaze. But the mother only shifted slightly, kissing the newborn’s head, gently stroking its fur. The older baby’s cries grew louder, sharper. Her eyes filled with tears, not of hunger, but of something far deeper—jealousy.
Jealousy burned inside her tiny chest like a fire. She climbed closer, inch by inch, until she was right beside her mother. She tugged at the mother’s arm, trying to pull it away from the newborn. When that didn’t work, she squeaked loudly, demanding attention. Still, the mother stayed focused on the delicate bundle in her lap.
The baby’s frustration broke into something darker. Her little teeth bared, she lunged toward the newborn’s arm, snapping with a clumsy attempt to bite. It was not the bite of true aggression—her strength was too small, her body too fragile—but it was born of jealousy, of longing, of the painful belief that she had been replaced.
The newborn squeaked in surprise, flinching away. The mother reacted instantly, pulling her tiny infant closer to her chest while glaring at the older sibling. She scolded sharply, her voice firm, filled with authority and disappointment. The jealous baby froze, her small body shaking with fear and confusion. Her attempt had failed; instead of winning her mother back, she had been pushed further away.
Her heart ached in ways she could not understand. She wanted love, she wanted milk, she wanted the soft touch that used to belong only to her. Instead, she sat on the branch, trembling, staring at the baby in her mother’s arms—the baby who had stolen everything.
Tears wet her little face as she cried again, louder this time, her body rocking with sorrow. The mother, though protective of the newborn, could not completely ignore her. She reached out with one arm, trying to comfort the older baby, but the gesture was brief, distracted, divided. It wasn’t enough. The jealous baby could feel the difference. She knew the embrace was no longer just hers.
The hunger for love turned into hunger for milk. Her belly rumbled, sharp and empty. She reached again, this time desperate, clawing at her mother’s fur to reach the breast. But the newborn was already nursing, tiny lips latched, tiny body nestled securely in the warmth. The older baby squealed with rage. She shoved forward, trying to push the newborn away, and once again tried to bite, her teeth grazing the little one’s side.
The newborn cried loudly, a high-pitched squeak of alarm. The mother reacted with anger now, swatting the jealous baby aside with a firm hand. The older child stumbled back on the branch, almost slipping. She clung desperately, chest heaving, eyes wide with shock. The rejection cut deeper than any hunger could.
Her cries turned into wails, echoing through the forest. Other monkeys nearby turned their heads, some watching with pity, others with indifference. In the cruel reality of the wild, jealousy was dangerous, and mothers were forced to protect their most vulnerable infants first. The older baby was strong enough to cling, to forage soon. The newborn was helpless, fragile, and demanded everything.
But how could the jealous baby understand that? To her, the world was simple: her mother had chosen another over her.
Her small body curled into itself, hugging her own chest as she sobbed. She looked again at the newborn, not with pure hatred, but with aching sadness. She wanted to bite because she wanted to belong again, to push away the rival who had taken her place. She did not understand that her mother still loved her, only differently, only less visibly.
The sun sank lower, the forest growing cooler. The jealous baby climbed down a few branches, sitting alone, her back turned. She chewed on a leaf halfheartedly, but the taste was bitter compared to the sweetness she longed for—the taste of milk, of love. Her stomach grumbled, but her heart hurt more.
Above, the mother continued to cradle the newborn, rocking it gently, humming soft monkey calls of comfort. Occasionally, she looked down at her older child, torn between instincts and emotion. She wanted to give both her babies everything, but the demands of survival forced her to choose.
The jealous baby’s eyes glistened as she stared up at them one last time. She wanted to climb back, to try again, to press herself into her mother’s arms. But fear of rejection—and fear of her mother’s anger—kept her frozen. Instead, she sat in the fading light, lonely, aching, and jealous.
Her tiny teeth still itched with the memory of her failed bites, but beneath that was only heartbreak. She didn’t truly want to hurt her sibling—she only wanted what had been stolen: the warmth of a mother’s undivided love.
And so, her cries drifted through the forest like a mournful song. A jealous baby, too small to understand, too hungry to endure, and too broken to stop trying.
