The forest was quiet except for the trembling breaths of a young mother monkey named Lara. She lay curled at the base of a thick tree, her fur damp with sweat, her body shaking from exhaustion and pain. She had already delivered two tiny newborns—weak, silent, barely moving. But something inside her told her it wasn’t over.
Her stomach tightened again, sharp and heavy.
She groaned, clutching the earth.
The first newborns, still slick and fragile, lay pressed against her thigh, their tiny bodies twitching as they tried to breathe. Lara wanted to pull them closer, to clean them, to comfort them—but she couldn’t move. The pain held her down like a weight.
Then, suddenly—
A third baby emerged.
Small, trembling, barely alive.
Lara gasped sharply, her chest rising and falling in desperate, shallow breaths. She could hardly lift her arm, but she reached out anyway. Her fingers brushed the newborn’s back, weak but full of love.
Before she could recover, another contraction tore through her body.
Her vision blurred. The trees above her spun. She tried to cry out for help, but only a faint whimper escaped her throat.
A fourth baby appeared, sliding onto the leaves beside the others.
Lara’s head fell back as she panted violently. Her breath came fast, then slow, then fast again. She could feel her heartbeat pounding painfully in her ribs. Four newborns. Four tiny lives depending on her. But her strength was slipping.
Then her body tightened again—this time stronger, deeper, almost unbearable.
She screamed.
Her hand clawed at the soil. Tears leaked from her eyes.
Moments later—
A fifth baby was born, smaller than the others, barely larger than a hand. It made no sound. It didn’t even move at first. Lara nudged it gently with her lips, and a soft twitch ran through its tiny leg.
She exhaled shakily, relief mixing with fear.
But the forest had one more surprise.
Her stomach contracted once more—long, slow, burning. Lara cried out, her voice sharp and desperate. Her arms trembled uncontrollably. She didn’t think she could survive another birth. She closed her eyes, praying silently for strength.
And then—
A sixth baby arrived, fragile and wet, rolling gently onto a leaf.
Six newborns.
Six tiny, helpless babies lying around her like scattered stars.
Six new lives brought into the world by a mother now barely conscious.
Lara collapsed forward, chest heaving, her breath thin and ragged. Her body was trembling so violently she could no longer lift her arms. She tried to gather her babies close, but her limbs refused to obey. All she could do was watch through half-closed eyes as her newborns twitched and squirmed weakly on the forest floor.
A soft cry echoed from the branches above.
It was Mara, an older female from the troop who had been watching Lara from a distance. When she realized what was happening, she rushed down to the ground, landing beside the exhausted mother.
Her eyes widened in shock.
Six babies. Six tiny bodies covered in birth fluid, shaking in the cold air.
Mara didn’t hesitate. She scooped two of the newborns toward Lara’s belly. She cleaned their faces, licked their fur, warmed them with her hands. She called out loudly to the rest of the troop.
Within seconds, two more females arrived.
They gasped at the sight but quickly began helping—grooming the newborns, lifting them gently, arranging them close to Lara so they could feel her warmth.
Lara looked up at them weakly, her eyes full of gratitude and exhaustion. She tried to reach for her babies again, but her hand fell back to the ground.
Mara touched her forehead with her own, whispering soft, comforting sounds as if to say:
You are not alone.
We will help you.
Your babies will live.
As the first light of morning filtered through the leaves, six newborn monkeys huddled tightly against their exhausted mother, surrounded by the caring arms of the troop.
Lara’s breath grew steadier.
Her eyes softened.
Her babies were safe.
And she was no longer fighting alone.
