The little monkey was very angry with his mother.
His small face was tight with emotion, eyes burning with tears that refused to fall. He turned his head away sharply when she came near, letting out a sharp cry—not the cry of hunger, but the cry of hurt. His tiny chest rose and fell quickly, filled with feelings too big for his small body to understand.
He had waited.
He had cried.
And she wasn’t there.
In his heart, anger felt easier than fear. Anger felt stronger than sadness. So he chose it.
When his mother finally returned, reaching out to pull him close, he pushed back weakly with his hands. His movements were clumsy and small, but the message was clear: Why did you leave me? His tail flicked sharply. His mouth opened in an upset scream, louder than before.
The mother froze for a moment.
She saw it immediately—the anger, the pain, the confusion. She knew this cry. It wasn’t rejection. It was heartbreak wearing anger as armor.
The baby turned away again, curling his body inward. His shoulders shook, not from strength, but from exhaustion. He wanted comfort so badly—but he was still hurt. Being angry was the only way he knew how to protect himself from feeling abandoned again.
His mother sat beside him quietly.
She didn’t force him into her arms. She didn’t scold. She simply stayed. Her presence was calm, steady, patient. She watched him closely, her eyes full of worry and love. She reached out slowly, not to grab him, but to let him choose.
The baby glanced back.
Just once.
He saw her still there.
Still waiting.
Still caring.
His anger wavered.
He let out another cry—softer this time, less sharp. His body leaned toward her without him realizing it. The fight drained out of him all at once. Anger collapsed into sadness, and sadness into need.
He crawled forward suddenly and pressed himself into her chest.
That was it.
The tears came freely now. Loud sobs shook his body as he clung to her fur, holding tight as if afraid she might disappear again. His mother wrapped her arms around him firmly, protectively, pulling him close. She rocked gently, making soft sounds meant only for him.
“I’m here,” her warmth said.
The baby cried harder for a moment—letting everything out. The fear. The loneliness. The anger. His small hands clenched tightly in her fur, refusing to let go. He buried his face against her, breathing in the familiar scent that meant safety.
Slowly, his breathing changed.
Fast… then slower.
Shaky… then calm.
His anger faded completely, replaced by relief so deep it made his body feel heavy. His muscles relaxed. His cries softened into quiet whimpers, then into silence. He stayed pressed against her, eyes closed now, completely drained.
His mother continued to hold him.
She knew he wasn’t angry because he hated her.
He was angry because he loved her.
Because he needed her.
Because being left—even for a short time—had hurt his tiny heart.
As he drifted toward sleep, one small hand still gripped her fur tightly. Even in rest, he needed to be sure she was real. Still there. Still his.
The little monkey had been very angry with his mother.
But anger was only the surface.
Underneath it was love, fear, and the desperate need to feel safe again.
And this time, she stayed. 🐒💛
