In a quiet forest where the sun filtered softly through the trees, a heartbreaking scene unfolded. A tiny baby monkey, no more than a few weeks old, clung to a tree root, his little hands trembling, his eyes wide with confusion and sadness. He had no idea why his mother—his whole world—had suddenly turned her back on him.
The baby had been born weak and small, his cries softer than his siblings. From the moment he opened his eyes, it seemed his mother didn’t feel the same connection to him as she did with the others. While she lovingly groomed and cuddled the stronger babies, this little one sat off to the side, alone and forgotten.
At first, the baby tried everything to get his mother’s attention. He crawled close, squeaking softly. He reached out his tiny arms toward her, eyes pleading. But she pushed him away each time, sometimes even with a slap of her hand. When the baby tried to suckle, the mother would jump away or snarl, treating him as if he were not her own.
The forest echoed with the cries of this unwanted baby. Other monkeys in the group looked on in silence, some with curiosity, others with sympathy. But no one intervened. That was the rule of the wild—every mother chose which baby to raise. And this baby was not chosen.
As the days passed, the baby grew weaker. Without his mother’s milk, he had no strength. He tried to eat little fruits and leaves, but his hands were too clumsy, and his teeth too small. He grew thinner, his belly bloated from hunger, his eyes sunken.
Still, he waited. Every time his mother walked by, he lifted his head, hoping this would be the moment she changed her mind. That she’d remember he was her child. But she never stopped. She never looked. Sometimes, she even kicked dust toward him to keep him away.
One hot afternoon, the baby fainted under a tree. The sun was harsh, the ground dry. He lay there, barely moving, his chest rising and falling slowly. A young female monkey—one of the older sisters in the group—watched from a distance. She seemed unsure of what to do, torn between the instinct to stay safe and the urge to help.
She finally approached, gently touching the baby’s tiny fingers. He barely moved, just opened his eyes for a second, then closed them again. The older sister sat beside him quietly, shielding him from the sun with her body. For a while, there was peace.
But when the mother returned and saw her older daughter sitting with the rejected baby, she became furious. She screamed and chased both of them away. The older sister ran into the trees, frightened. The baby had no energy to move. He just lay there, alone again, too weak even to cry.
As the evening came and the cool wind moved through the forest, the baby curled into himself. No warmth. No milk. No love. Only silence.
Some say the baby passed that night under the stars. Others believe another mother, one who had lost her own baby, came and took him in. No one knows for sure. But what remains is the pain—the deep, silent ache of a baby who only wanted to be loved by the one who gave him life.
In the animal world, survival is never guaranteed. But rejection from your own mother? That is a pain far greater than hunger or fear. That is a broken heart. And that is a sadness no creature should ever have to feel.
