The quiet moment beneath the trees turned into chaos. Jane, the tired mother monkey, had just begun feeding little Janna, whose small face pressed softly against her mother for milk. Janna’s eyes closed in peace, her cries fading at last.
But nearby, Janet could not accept it. The moment she saw her sister drinking, she rushed forward, screaming loudly. Her voice echoed through the forest, so sharp and desperate that Jane’s body tensed in panic. The sound grew louder and louder, demanding her mother’s attention.
Unable to ignore the cries, Jane pulled Janna away. Janna resisted, clinging tightly and crying out in confusion. Yet Jane had no choice—Janet was too loud, too distressed. She shifted her arms and allowed Janet to feed instead.
The moment Janet’s lips touched the milk, her anger vanished. But now it was Janna’s turn to sob uncontrollably. She cried louder than before, shaking and wailing, her tiny hands grabbing at her mother’s fur as though begging: Don’t forget me, Mama.
Janet, in her rush, pushed Janna aside, breaking the moment of comfort her sister had. The cries of both babies overlapped—Janet’s earlier screams, Janna’s new heartbreak—and Jane sat in the middle, torn and helpless.
Every time one baby fed, the other was left in sorrow. Every switch broke one heart while soothing the other. And through it all, Jane’s face showed exhaustion and pain, a mother caught in a cycle she could not escape.
It was a pitiful, emotional scene—two babies, both craving love, both crying for milk, and one mother who could never satisfy them at the same time.
