In the heart of the jungle, where life thrives in tangled vines and birds sing above the treetops, not every story is one of warmth and nurturing. While many baby monkeys swung happily in their mothers’ arms or nestled close to their fur at night, one tiny soul lived a very different kind of life—a life filled not with love, but with pain.
He was a small baby monkey, barely strong enough to cling to a branch, with round, innocent eyes and soft fur that hadn’t yet thickened. His cries were not from hunger or loneliness alone—they came from being hurt. Not by a predator, not by the wild, but by the one who should’ve been his protector—his mother.
Unlike other mothers in the troop, who cradled and protected their young, this mother was different. She was always angry. Her face was tight with frustration. Her movements were sharp. Her hands, meant for gentle grooming, often came down with force. To her baby, those hands were not a source of comfort—but of fear.
The other babies clung to their mothers with trust and safety. But he clung with hesitation, with flinches, expecting the next sudden shove, the next hit. He cried often—but not too loud. He had learned that the louder he cried, the harder she pushed.
Sometimes, for no reason at all, she would turn on him—slapping him across the back, yanking his little arm when he tried to reach for her food, snarling at him if he got too close while she was resting. He didn’t understand why. He didn’t know what he had done wrong.
He just wanted to be near her.
She was still his mother.
In the early mornings, when other babies were being groomed and fed, he sat at a distance, eyes fixed on his mother. Sometimes, out of desperate hope, he would crawl slowly toward her, reaching out his small hands. His tail would twitch nervously behind him. He would try to sit beside her, pressing his tiny body gently against hers.
But then—whack.
A sudden slap across his head or a firm push to the side.
He would fall back, stunned, then curl into himself. Not just from pain, but from confusion. Wasn’t he supposed to be loved? Weren’t mothers supposed to hold their babies?
The troop noticed, but said nothing. In the animal world, intervention is rare. Even among monkeys, the rules of motherhood are harsh. No one stopped her. No one helped him.
Days passed like this.
Hit. Cry. Silence. Try again. Another hit.
The baby began to change.
He cried less—not because he felt less, but because he learned that his pain didn’t matter. His body grew thinner, and his eyes no longer lit up when others played. He watched the other babies wrestle and laugh, but never joined in. He didn’t know how. No one had taught him joy.
His body bore small signs of his suffering—scratches from being pushed, a limp from falling off a branch she knocked him off, bruises under fur too thin to hide them.
And still… he followed her.
Even when she hissed. Even when she hit. He followed—because she was his mother. And in his small, fragile heart, he still believed she might someday change. That if he stayed close enough, if he was quiet enough, she might one day hold him the way other mothers did their babies.
But she never did.
She only grew colder.
One day, during feeding time, the troop gathered near a fig tree heavy with fruit. The baby monkey reached for a piece that had fallen beside his mother. It was small and bruised, but he was hungry.
Without warning, she spun around and slapped him hard across the face.
The troop went silent.
He staggered back, holding his cheek, tears immediately welling in his eyes. He looked at her—not with anger, but with the kind of heartbreak only the young can feel when the world betrays them.
She turned away, already eating again.
He didn’t cry. Not this time. He simply walked away, disappearing into the lower branches, finding a quiet spot beneath a patch of ferns. There, he lay flat against the cool ground, eyes wide, tears soaking into the dirt. The jungle continued around him—birds calling, monkeys chattering, leaves swaying—but to him, everything was silent.
He didn’t want to be part of it anymore.
That night, he didn’t return to sleep near her.
He slept alone, curled up beside a root, trembling from the cold and the sting of her rejection. Even in sleep, he whimpered softly, dreaming not of monsters or storms—but of being held. A simple wish. A soft hug. A mother’s warmth.
But in the real world, that wish never came.
As the days went on, something changed in him. He no longer tried to reach for her. He didn’t follow her closely. He stopped trying to share food. Instead, he stayed back—silent, distant, and cautious.
He learned that love wouldn’t come from her.
And slowly, he looked elsewhere.
A kind older female in the troop, who had long finished raising her own young, began to notice him. She saw how he kept to himself. She saw the bruises. She saw the way he flinched when others approached.
One afternoon, she sat beside him as he picked at a fallen fruit. She didn’t speak or touch him. Just stayed.
The next day, she sat closer.
Then she offered him a piece of her own food.
He looked at her with surprise. Then, cautiously, took it.
And for the first time in weeks, he ate without fear of being hit.
It was a small beginning. No one could replace a mother’s love. The damage she did would not disappear overnight. The fear, the sadness—it would remain like a scar on his tiny heart.
But someone had shown him kindness.
And that kindness, like a seed, might someday grow into healing.
Because even in the wildest corners of the jungle—even for a baby who never knew love—there’s still a chance to feel safe again. Still a chance to find gentleness after pain.
And still a chance to learn that not all hands strike.
Some hands heal.
