In the heart of a quiet jungle, under a large fig tree where the sunlight filtered through the leaves in golden streaks, lived a small family of monkeys. Among them was a little baby monkey named Momo—tiny, soft, and only a few weeks old. His fur was still light and fluffy, and his eyes sparkled with innocent wonder. But today, Momo wasn’t playing or exploring like the others. He was crying.
His high-pitched sobs echoed through the trees, drawing the attention of other monkeys nearby. But no one came to comfort him. Momo’s tiny belly growled in hunger, and his little arms reached out, trembling, toward his father. But his father, a large, strong male monkey named Raka, turned his back coldly.
Momo didn’t understand. He was hungry—so hungry. His mother had gone off to search for fruits earlier in the morning, and since then, he hadn’t been able to feed. Normally, when he cried, his mother would come running and let him nurse, gently rocking him in her arms. But today, she was gone, and the only one left was Raka.
Momo crawled closer to his father, letting out a pitiful whimper. “Eeeh… eeeh…” his voice cracked with desperation. He nestled against Raka’s chest, trying to find warmth, trying to feel loved. But Raka stood up sharply and pushed him away—not with violence, but with a coldness that hurt more than any slap.
“No,” Raka grunted lowly, his face expressionless.
Momo tumbled back, landing softly in the grass. He looked up, confused and heartbroken. He didn’t know why his father wouldn’t let him come close, why he couldn’t feel safe with him. His little arms wrapped around his thin stomach, and he curled up into a ball, sobbing quietly.
Nearby, some other monkeys watched. An older female shook her head. “He’s too young,” she muttered. “The baby needs his mother.”
But Raka didn’t listen. He sat on a high branch, grooming himself, pretending not to hear his baby’s cries. Maybe he didn’t want to be bothered. Maybe he didn’t know how to be gentle. Or maybe he believed the baby needed to learn to be strong on his own.
But Momo was not ready for that. He needed comfort. He needed milk. He needed someone to hold him, to hush his cries and kiss his small face. His sobs grew louder, his breath shallow from crying too long.
Minutes passed. Then an hour.
Finally, the rustle of leaves came from the trees above. Momo weakly opened his eyes and saw his mother swing down quickly, her arms full of ripe berries. Her face changed the moment she saw Momo lying there crying, his cheeks stained with tears.
“Momo!” she cried, rushing to him. She dropped the fruit and scooped him up, pressing him to her chest. Momo clung to her, wailing louder now, his little mouth searching for her warmth. She let him nurse immediately, whispering softly, “I’m here, baby. I’m here now.”
Raka glanced down but said nothing.
Momo’s cries slowly faded as he nursed. His tiny hand gripped a strand of his mother’s fur, his whole body shaking with relief. He didn’t understand why his father wouldn’t help him. But in that moment, wrapped in his mother’s arms, it didn’t matter.
He was safe again. But the pain of being rejected—of needing love and being turned away—would leave a mark on his little heart.
And in the trees above, the wind rustled through the leaves, as if whispering a question that no one could answer:
