Deep in the forest, where the air smells of fresh leaves and the ground is soft with fallen branches, a female monkey named Lila was about to face one of the hardest moments of her life. Her belly was heavy, her breathing shallow, and her face showed the deep signs of exhaustion. Lila was going to give birth—but it was not going to be easy.
Lila had carried the baby for months. She had traveled through trees and climbed rocky paths, always careful not to fall or get hurt. She had eaten what she could, grooming her fur in the warm sunlight and curling up under the trees at night. She was not young, but not old either—this baby was her first, and she didn’t know what to expect. But something in her body told her the moment had come.
Early in the morning, before the others in the troop were awake, Lila started to feel the pain. It was deep inside her belly, a twisting and pushing that made her cry out softly. She moved away from the group slowly, trying to find a quiet place under a big tree where the grass was thick and cool. Her hands grabbed the roots for support, and she crouched low, her whole body shaking.
The contractions came hard and fast.
She groaned and whimpered as wave after wave of pain hit her. She arched her back, trying to push, her eyes full of fear. There was no help, no midwife like in the human world, no one to hold her hand or soothe her with kind words. She was alone, trembling, breathing fast, and struggling.
Hours passed. The baby was not coming easily.
Lila screamed—not loud, but sharp enough that a few monkeys nearby stopped what they were doing. Some watched from the trees, confused. A few older mothers understood what was happening and looked on silently. One came close, sniffed the air, then backed away. In the monkey world, birth was dangerous—not only for the baby but for the mother too.
The baby was stuck.
Lila tried to change position. She lay on her side, gritting her teeth. She pulled at her own fur and grunted, forcing every part of her tired body to keep pushing. Blood was starting to show beneath her. Her arms were weak. Her legs were cramping.
Still, the baby wouldn’t come.
She cried again—longer this time. A sound of frustration, fear, and pain. Her eyes were wide with panic. She rolled slightly to her back and reached between her legs, touching the tiny head that had just begun to crown. The baby was trying—but something was wrong. The baby was too big. Or maybe not positioned right. The birth was taking too long.
Lila’s breaths turned to gasps. Her body was starting to give up. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, and sweat soaked her fur. The forest felt hot and cold at the same time.
But something deep inside her—the part of her that knew this baby was her future—kept her going.
She groaned and gave one long, deep push. Her arms tensed. Her back arched hard. Her feet scraped at the dirt. And finally…finally… the baby began to slip free.
A tiny body covered in blood and fluid slid out, silent and still. Lila collapsed, her chest heaving. For a few seconds, there was only silence. The world felt frozen.
Then, she reached forward with shaky arms and pulled the newborn close.
The baby was limp.
Lila began licking the baby fast, cleaning him, warming him, trying to make him breathe. Her tongue moved in fast, careful strokes, clearing his nose, his mouth, wiping away the afterbirth. She sniffed his face, nudged his belly, and whimpered.
And then—the baby took a breath.
A small, shaky inhale. Then another. His chest rose. His tiny fingers curled.
Lila made a low, humming sound—part relief, part prayer. She kept grooming him, not stopping for a second. The baby’s eyes were still closed, but he was alive. Alive.
She pulled him to her chest, wrapping her arms around him. She looked so weak, so tired, but in that moment, she looked like the strongest creature in the world.
Hours later, she slowly returned to the troop, walking carefully, her new baby clutched to her belly. She looked thinner. Pale. But her eyes were calm now, her body steady. The baby clung to her tightly, his tiny face nuzzled against her.
The other monkeys looked, but no one came too close. They understood. Birth was sacred. And dangerous.
Lila had done it. She had gone through one of the hardest kinds of pain, a struggle that almost broke her body, and still she had fought. For that little life. For her child.
Now, she held him close as the forest wind brushed against them. She sat under a tree, eyes half-closed, letting the sun warm her fur. The baby slept, breathing gently against her.
There would be more challenges ahead—finding food, protecting him from danger, keeping him alive in a wild, unpredictable world. But for now, she had won the hardest battle.
She had given life.
And despite the pain, the fear, the hours of screaming and pushing and nearly giving up—she had done what only a mother could do.
With her baby in her arms, Lila whispered softly in her monkey way.
She was a mother now.
