The sun dips low behind the trees, and the soft evening breeze rustles through the troop’s resting place. Little Libby, with her round eyes and tiny hands, sits close to Mama’s usual spot, waiting for her warm comfort and sweet milk. But tonight, things are not the same.
Mama Katrina has taken Rainbow — the older, bigger baby — away into the trees for a long walk. Rainbow clings to Mama’s back, chattering softly, so happy to have all of Mama’s attention. But down below, Libby sits alone, tiny belly rumbling, soft cries breaking through the quiet dusk.
She shifts side to side, sniffles echoing under the branches. Her little face scrunches up in worry each time she looks around, hoping to see Mama coming back. But only the rustling leaves answer her tiny sobs.
Nearby, Yat — an older cousin — watches Libby with kind eyes. He hears her hungry cries and moves closer, patting her gently on the head. Still, Libby cries louder, calling for Mama, calling for milk, too small to understand why Mama isn’t here.
Then I step in, seeing her tiny shoulders shaking in the fading light. With Yat’s help, I scoop her up carefully, holding her close so she feels safe. Yat chatters softly to calm her, gently grooming the dust from her fur.
We wait together, rocking her gently until the rustle of branches signals Katrina’s return. Mama comes back at last, Rainbow still perched happily on her back. The moment Libby sees her, her cries turn into tiny, relieved squeaks.
Katrina settles down, wrapping Libby close and letting her finally drink her warm, needed milk. Libby’s cries fade into soft sighs as her tiny belly fills. Tonight, under the darkening sky, she knows she’s safe — and loved — once more.
