The morning began softly, with the gentle light of dawn spilling through the trees. Birds called overhead, and the forest stirred with quiet life. In the midst of this beauty, a small baby monkey sat alone, its eyes swollen with tears. Its tiny chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and its face carried an expression far too heavy for one so young. This was not the usual playful, curious baby found in the wild. This was a baby whose little heart was breaking.
The mother was nearby, but distant in more ways than one. She perched higher up on a branch, grooming another adult, her attention fixed elsewhere. Once, she had cradled this baby with tender love, feeding it, kissing its head, protecting it from every danger. But now, something had changed. Whether from exhaustion, illness, or the burden of caring for others, her affection seemed to fade, leaving the baby to fend for itself.
The little one stretched its arms upward, squeaking softly, a desperate plea for comfort. The mother glanced down only briefly, then turned away. That single moment—her ignoring gaze—struck the baby’s heart with an invisible blow. It whimpered louder, crawling closer, but again the mother shifted, brushing the baby aside.
Each rejection felt heavier, cutting deeper. The baby’s cries grew weaker, not because the pain had faded, but because sorrow had drained its strength. It clung to the branch, rocking slightly, as if trying to soothe itself. Its small hands trembled, its tail wrapped tightly for comfort.
When hunger struck, the baby tried again. It climbed onto its mother’s lap, mouth searching instinctively for milk. But the mother pushed it away firmly, her body twisting to shield herself. The baby fell back, landing clumsily, its tiny head jerking upward in shock. The rejection was final, brutal in its clarity.
The baby’s cries erupted once more—thin, sharp, and haunting. They echoed through the forest like a song of despair. Other monkeys turned their heads, some curious, others indifferent. But none came closer. None understood the pain in that tiny cry.
The baby pressed its hands against its chest, the way little ones sometimes do, as if holding its own breaking heart together. It tilted its face to the sky, tears wetting its fur, its voice cracking with sorrow. It wanted love, warmth, a single touch—but the world had turned cold.
Moments dragged on, each second heavier than the last. The baby curled into a ball, hugging itself, eyes half-closed in exhaustion. Hunger gnawed inside, loneliness clawed deeper, and sorrow pressed down with unbearable weight. It was too young to understand why. All it knew was that the bond that had once filled its world with joy now seemed shattered, leaving it stranded in silence.
Sometimes, the mother glanced at it, and for a flicker of a moment, there was softness in her eyes. But just as quickly, she looked away, her attention elsewhere. For the baby, those fleeting glimpses of love were torture. They were reminders of what once was, of the embrace it would never fully have again.
As the sun climbed higher, the baby’s cries finally slowed. Not because the pain was gone, but because its little body could cry no more. Its throat ached, its chest heaved, its eyes stung. It sat motionless now, staring blankly at the ground, its spirit crushed under the weight of rejection.
The forest around it carried on—leaves rustled, birds sang, insects buzzed—but for the baby, the world was empty. Every sound seemed distant, every color dull. Inside its tiny chest, the heart still beat, but it beat with cracks, fragile and weak.
This was not a baby hungry for food alone. This was a baby starving for love, for comfort, for the warmth of belonging. And in the absence of it all, its little heart was breaking—slowly, quietly, and painfully—like a fragile branch splintering in the wind.
