Under the fading light of dusk, a tired little monkey curls up beside his mother on a thick branch high above the ground. His tiny eyes blink slowly, heavy with sleep. Every now and then, he lets out a soft, sleepy whimper — a sound only his mama knows well.
All he wants is the warm comfort he’s known since the day he was born — the safe, gentle feeling of nursing before he drifts off to sleep. He tucks his small head under her arm, tiny fingers searching for the soft belly that always gave him comfort.
But tonight, Mama is gentle but firm. She shifts her body away just enough so he can’t reach. She hums a soft sound, her hand brushing over his head as if to say, “Not now, my baby. You’re big enough.”
The little one doesn’t understand. His eyes open wide, shiny with confusion and a touch of sadness. He tries again, nudging her belly with his nose, pawing at her fur with his tiny hands. Mama sighs, wrapping her arm around him instead, blocking him from the warmth he wants so badly.
He lets out a tiny, broken squeak — a sound too small to echo through the trees but big enough to break a heart. He snuggles closer, pressing his face into her chest, hoping maybe she’ll change her mind. But Mama stays still, calm but unyielding.
In the dark, he drifts off at last, his tiny heartbeat pressed against hers, dreaming of milk he didn’t get but still feeling her warmth around him.
It’s a quiet lesson in growing up — for Mama and her baby both. Even when the milk is gone, her love is there, wrapping him safe until morning comes again.
