The baby monkey was not just crying anymore.
He was angry.
His tiny face was red, his eyes swollen from tears, and his small fists were clenched tightly. Hunger had stayed too long. Fear had stayed too long. And now, something inside him had changed.
He screamed.
It wasn’t the soft, helpless cry from before. It was louder. Sharper. Full of frustration. His voice echoed through the trees, surprising even the birds nearby. His whole body shook as he poured out everything he felt—hunger, loneliness, confusion.
No one came.
That made him even angrier.
He slapped the ground with his tiny hands. He kicked his weak legs. He grabbed a dry leaf and threw it, as if the world itself had disappointed him. His breathing was fast and uneven.
Why was he alone?
Why didn’t anyone care?
His stomach growled painfully. That sound made him cry again, but now the tears mixed with anger. He didn’t understand why milk never came when he needed it. He didn’t understand why warm arms were gone.
A branch cracked above him.
He froze.
For a second, hope returned. Maybe it was his mother. Maybe she had heard his screams. He looked up quickly, eyes wide.
But it was only another monkey passing by.
The baby’s face twisted again. He screamed at the sky this time, a wild, frustrated sound that felt too big for his tiny body. He didn’t know how to control his emotions. He was too small to understand them.
Anger was easier than sadness.
Anger made him feel strong for one moment.
He tried to stand again, wobbling on shaky legs. This time, instead of falling immediately, he stayed upright for a few seconds. He beat his tiny chest once, copying what he had seen older monkeys do.
But he wasn’t strong.
After only a few seconds, he collapsed back down. The effort drained what little energy he had left. His anger slowly faded into exhaustion.
His cries became softer again.
The truth was simple—he wasn’t truly angry at the world. He was hurt. He was hungry. He was scared.
And sometimes, when babies are overwhelmed, anger is just another way of crying.
The wind moved gently through the trees. The forest didn’t shout back at him. It didn’t punish him for his screams. It simply continued.
The baby lay on his side, breathing hard. His fists slowly unclenched. Tears still slipped down his face, but they were quiet now.
Then, in the distance, he heard a familiar sound.
A soft call.
His ears twitched. His heart jumped. He lifted his head slowly, barely believing it.
Another call—closer this time.
It was her.
His mother appeared from between the trees, moving quickly now. Her eyes were alert, searching. When she saw him on the ground, small and trembling, something changed in her expression.
The baby let out one last weak cry—not angry anymore, just tired.
She came closer.
He didn’t scream this time. He didn’t slap the ground. He simply reached out with shaking hands.
And this time… she picked him up.
His anger melted instantly against her chest. His body relaxed the moment he felt warmth again. All the screaming, all the frustration, all the pain—it had been a baby’s way of saying one thing:
“I need you.”
Sometimes, anger in a tiny heart is not hatred.
It is hunger.
It is fear.
It is love that feels ignored.
And when the mother finally held him close, the forest became quiet again—not because the baby stopped feeling, but because he finally felt safe. 🐒💔💛
