The forest echoed with the soft rustling of leaves as the sun began to rise, painting everything in gold. But beneath one tall fig tree, the peace was broken by a heartbreaking sound — the desperate cries of a little baby monkey named Farrah.
Her tiny hands reached toward her mother, Funa, eyes wide with fear and hunger. She didn’t understand why her mother had suddenly turned away. For so long, milk had meant comfort, love, and safety — but now, every time Farrah tried to nurse, her mother pushed her aside or even bit her arm gently but firmly.
“Why, Mama?” Farrah seemed to cry, her small voice trembling.
Funa’s face showed no anger, only exhaustion and resolve. She had loved Farrah deeply since the day she was born, but nature was calling her to begin the weaning — to teach her baby to grow strong, to find food on her own. Yet, for a baby as young and tender as Farrah, it felt like rejection.
The morning breeze carried the sound of Farrah’s cries across the forest. Other monkeys looked on with curiosity and sympathy. The older mothers understood — they had done the same before. But to Farrah, this moment was unbearable. She screamed, threw herself on the ground, and curled up, her little stomach empty and heart aching.
She tried again to reach her mother, trembling, eyes full of tears. But Funa turned and moved away a few steps, keeping watch but not yielding.
A few moments later, she returned with a small piece of fruit — a soft banana. She placed it gently near her baby and waited. Farrah sniffed it, confused, then licked it. The sweetness surprised her. Slowly, she began to eat, her sobs quieting.
Funa sat beside her quietly, grooming the top of her head as Farrah nibbled. It was her way of saying, “I still love you, my baby.”
Weaning was never easy — not for the baby, and not for the mother. But it was a step toward independence, a small lesson from nature’s endless circle of love and strength.
As the day faded into evening, Farrah nestled beside Funa again, tired from crying but comforted by her mother’s warmth. She didn’t get milk that night, but she got something else — the beginning of courage.
Her little heart was still tender, still learning that love can sometimes mean letting go — and that even through the pain, her mother’s care never truly disappeared.
