The forest was alive with noise—birds sang from the high branches, monkeys chattered and swung between trees, and the river nearby roared with the strength of the rainy season. But in a quiet shadow beneath the vines, a single baby monkey sat huddled near the base of a tree. His name was Lumo, and he was afraid to move.
His mother was only a few feet away, sitting with the other females. She glanced at him now and then, but not with softness. Her gaze was sharp, annoyed, as if just looking at her baby irritated her. Her name was Kala, and though she had given birth to Lumo, she never truly welcomed him into her heart.
From the day he was born, Kala had treated Lumo like a burden. While the other mothers groomed and cuddled their babies, Kala often pushed Lumo away. When he cried, she growled. When he tried to climb onto her back, she jerked her body and let him fall. His cries became quieter over time, not because he felt better—but because he had learned no one would come.
Today was no different.
Earlier that morning, Lumo had tried to nurse. His tiny belly growled from hunger. Carefully, nervously, he had crawled toward Kala, reaching for her, his hands shaking.
But before he could even touch her, she lashed out—a hard slap across his back with her open palm.
Lumo yelped and stumbled backward. The other mothers turned and watched, but no one intervened. Kala had made it clear to the troop that Lumo was not to be coddled, not even by them.
“Why does she hate me?” Lumo didn’t understand. He only knew that warmth and love were things he saw others receive, but never felt for himself.
Despite the fear, he still followed her. He always followed her. She was his mother, after all. His only anchor in a world too big and cold.
As the day wore on, the troop traveled through the trees, searching for fruit. Lumo struggled to keep up. He was smaller than the other babies, thinner too. Every time he stopped to catch his breath, Kala hissed at him from above.
“Hurry up!”
Lumo whimpered, his tiny legs trembling. But he pushed himself forward, desperate not to make her angrier.
When they stopped near a fig tree, the other babies were scooped up and held by their mothers. Some nursed. Others were groomed gently while they dozed. But Lumo was left on the outer edge, alone again.
He watched with wide, hollow eyes.
Then came the worst moment of the day.
Lumo saw a large beetle crawling near a root. It was the only thing he could catch with his little hands, and though it wasn’t fruit, it was something. He picked it up and brought it to Kala, eyes wide with hope.
“Mama… food…”
Kala didn’t look touched. She looked furious.
“I don’t want that filth!” she snapped, slapping the bug from his hand and grabbing his arm.
He shrieked, more from fear than pain, and stumbled back, falling hard onto the dirt. Tears welled in his eyes, but he didn’t cry. Not out loud. He had learned not to.
Kala turned away as if he didn’t exist.
A nearby mother, Yani, had watched it all. She looked at Lumo with sadness in her eyes. Her own baby clung tightly to her chest, sucking happily. She looked at Kala, then back at Lumo—but again, no one interfered.
Lumo spent the rest of the afternoon sitting alone. He picked at leaves. Dug at the dirt. His eyes followed his mother wherever she went, hoping for even the tiniest sign of affection—a look, a touch, even just her calling his name. But none came.
The sun began to fall, shadows stretching long through the trees. One by one, the babies were tucked into nests with their mothers. The troop settled for the night, but Lumo had no nest. Kala had climbed high into the branches, curling up by herself.
Lumo looked up from below, crying silently.
Still, he tried. He climbed, one slow step at a time, until he reached her branch. “Mama,” he whispered, reaching out.
She turned and shoved him.
“Go away,” she snarled.
He slipped, barely catching a lower branch before falling. His arms burned. His heart shattered.
Lumo didn’t try again. He climbed back down and curled into a tiny ball at the base of the tree. His arms wrapped around himself as he rocked softly in the cold air. The night sounds of the jungle echoed around him—owls, insects, distant howls. But Lumo’s world was only silence and fear.
He didn’t understand why she was always angry. Why he wasn’t loved like the others. Why her arms never opened for him.
He only knew that being born should have meant warmth, but instead, it meant loneliness.
And even in sleep, his small body trembled.
In the days to come, Yani began leaving bits of fruit near where Lumo lay. Not openly. Not where Kala could see. Just quiet gestures—small kindnesses in secret. Because even though the troop respected Kala’s role as a mother, some hearts still broke for Lumo.
And perhaps, one day, Lumo would find love where Kala could not give it.
But until then, he lived each day quietly, carefully, always hoping—just once—his mother would look at him not with anger, but with love.
And every day, his little heart kept waiting.
