The sun was gently breaking through the treetops of the dense Cambodian forest. A troop of monkeys moved through the canopy, their morning calls echoing like soft music. Among them was a young mother named Lina, barely old enough to raise a child of her own. She clung to her firstborn—an infant baby named Mino—who had only opened his eyes a few days ago.
Lina wasn’t like the other mothers. She was nervous, sometimes confused about what to do. She often watched the older females to learn how to groom, how to carry, how to nurse. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the fear inside her—a sense of being overwhelmed by the little life constantly gripping her chest.
That morning, the troop decided to move to a new tree. The journey meant leaping across wide gaps between the towering branches—dangerous jumps even for adults. Lina hesitated. Her limbs trembled as she stared across the gap. Below, a stream gurgled gently through a bed of jagged rocks. There was no safety net. One misstep meant a fall too far.
Behind her, another monkey nudged her forward impatiently.
She gathered her strength. Mino clung to her, but his grip was weak. He was so small, just skin and bones with wide, helpless eyes. Lina shifted his weight, hoping to get a better hold, but as she leapt, her heart clenched with terror.
Midair, her hands slipped. The moment felt frozen in time.
Mino fell.
It wasn’t a fast fall at first. He seemed to float downward, twisting and turning. Lina’s eyes widened, her mouth opened in a silent scream. She reached down as if her arms could stretch the impossible distance to catch him.
But gravity didn’t wait.
A sharp crack rang out through the jungle as Mino’s tiny body slammed against a pointed rock near the edge of the stream.
The forest went quiet.
Lina landed hard on the other tree. She barely held on before spinning around, screeching and scrambling back toward the trunk to look down.
Below, the baby lay still. His little chest barely moved. Blood seeped from a deep gash on the side of his head. One leg was twisted at an unnatural angle. He whimpered faintly—so soft it was almost like a breath.
Lina screamed.
It wasn’t a sound of anger—it was the gut-wrenching cry of a mother in shock.
The troop had stopped moving. Several monkeys peeked over branches, their faces blank with confusion, some even disinterested. To them, this was nature. Babies fall. Some survive. Some don’t. Life continues.
But Lina didn’t move on. She raced down the tree trunk, almost falling herself. She leapt from branch to branch, ignoring thorns and scrapes. She reached the ground, rushing to the baby.
Her hands shook as she lifted Mino, who whimpered in pain.
His body was limp. One eye was already swollen shut. Blood matted his fur and a large bruise was forming on his ribcage. Still, his tiny fingers curled faintly when she touched his hand. He was alive—but barely.
Lina pressed him to her chest, crying quietly.
She didn’t know what to do.
She sat beside the rock where it had all happened. Her eyes kept darting up to the tree where the fall began. Guilt crushed her like the jungle heat. She kept licking Mino’s wounds, gently, carefully, whispering little coos the way other mothers did. She rocked him, trying to keep him warm.
Hours passed.
The troop had moved on. The sounds of the forest returned, but Lina didn’t leave.
She didn’t eat. She didn’t drink. She stayed beside her baby, terrified he would stop breathing. She kept checking his little chest. Each rise and fall gave her hope. Each pause made her heart sink.
Late in the day, an older female from the troop named Mara came back.
Mara had raised many babies and had seen many die. She approached slowly, grunting softly.
Lina looked up, her eyes wild with fear.
Mara sat beside her. She examined the baby with experienced eyes. She touched the swollen leg and sniffed the blood. Then she grunted again—a low, sad sound—and looked into Lina’s eyes.
Mara was telling her: He may not make it.
But Lina wouldn’t accept it.
She pushed Mara away gently and continued to cradle her baby. She carried him into a patch of sunlight, hoping the warmth would soothe him. Mino moaned softly, his little lips opening but too weak to cry.
As night came, the forest grew colder.
Lina wrapped herself around her child. She made a nest from dry leaves, pulling ferns over them for cover. Her own body shook, not from the chill, but from helplessness.
That night, she didn’t sleep. She stayed awake, her eyes never leaving her baby.
Every few minutes, she touched his chest.
Every few minutes, she whispered his name.
By morning, Mino was still breathing—but his condition had worsened. The swelling on his head was worse, and his leg was beginning to swell as well.
Lina tried to move him gently, but he let out a soft cry—so pitiful, it made her body shake.
She tried to nurse him. He turned his head slightly but didn’t have the strength to suckle.
Lina began to panic.
She let out a loud call—an alert, a plea, a desperate scream into the forest. Maybe the others would hear. Maybe someone would come. Maybe help would arrive.
Hours passed. No one came.
She started carrying Mino through the undergrowth, looking for the troop, hoping to find another mother who might know what to do.
But she was alone.
Exhausted, Lina stopped beside a tree with broad leaves. She laid her baby down carefully and collapsed beside him. Tears rolled from her eyes as she watched him struggle to breathe.
She remembered the moment he was born—how small he was, how tightly he gripped her finger. She had promised herself she’d protect him, that she’d never let him fall. She failed.
She blamed herself.
But Mino didn’t blame her. Even in pain, even in weakness, his little eyes searched for her. When she kissed his head, he blinked slowly. He still knew she was his mother. He still felt safe in her arms.
For two more days, Lina stayed with him.
She barely ate.
She gave him everything she had—warmth, protection, love.
But love wasn’t enough.
On the morning of the third day, she noticed his breathing had slowed. She licked his forehead, whispered his name again and again.
But this time, he didn’t respond.
His body had gone still.
His little chest no longer moved.
Mino had passed away.
Lina froze.
She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She just stared.
Then, slowly, she pulled him to her chest and held him tightly. She carried his body for hours, refusing to let go. Even when the flies came. Even when the ants crept near. She pushed them all away.
She wasn’t ready.
Other monkeys eventually found her. They sniffed the baby, looked at Lina, then walked away. A few sat nearby in silence.
Later that evening, Lina sat beneath a tree and laid her baby on a large leaf.
She sat beside him, stroking his tiny hand one last time.
Then, she looked up at the sky, her eyes hollow.
She had lost her child.
And a part of her soul went with him.
Epilogue
In the wild, tragedies unfold silently. There are no headlines. No hospitals. No second chances. A single slip can cost a life. But even in the heart of the jungle, the depth of a mother’s love is immeasurable.
Lina eventually rejoined the troop.
But something in her changed.
She walked a little slower.
She looked at the trees differently—always cautious, always remembering.
And sometimes, when the wind blew just right, she’d pause, look toward the old tree where it all happened, and sit in silence—remembering the baby who once held her so tightly, and the love that never let go.
