In the warm light of morning, a young monkey—barely old enough to climb on his own—clung tightly to his mother’s belly. His name in the troop was simply “BB,” a nickname from the older females for his soft cries and big, pleading eyes.
BB was hungry. He reached for his mother’s chest, instinctively searching for milk. But this time, she gently pushed him away.
The mother, still young herself, looked down at her child with care—but also with resolve. Her body had stopped producing as much milk. It was time for BB to begin eating solid food, like fruit and leaves. His body was growing fast. He needed more than milk now.
But BB didn’t understand. He whimpered, grabbing at her again. His little hands trembled, and his lips smacked in protest. He didn’t want fruit. He didn’t want leaves. He wanted the comfort of milk—the warmth, the closeness, the habit.
Still, she turned away, guiding him gently toward a half-eaten mango resting on a nearby branch. He cried, frustrated, confused. His mother stayed nearby, watching him carefully but holding firm. Her rejection wasn’t cruel. It was part of growing up.
Eventually, BB picked up the fruit. Hesitantly, he bit into it. Juice dribbled down his chin. The taste surprised him. Sweet. Different. Not milk—but not bad either.
The mother inched closer, offering a quiet reassurance with a soft touch to his back. She wasn’t abandoning him—she was preparing him.
