In the quiet corner of the troop’s shaded resting place, a tiny baby monkey sits all alone on the soft, dusty ground. His fur is still fluffy and light, his big eyes wide with worry as he watches Mama move farther away.
She doesn’t mean to be cruel — she just needs to stretch her legs, find food, and check on the other young ones. But to this baby, her leaving feels like the end of his whole safe world.
He lets out a soft, broken squeak, almost too quiet for anyone else to hear. But Mama hears. She pauses for a moment, glancing back at him with gentle eyes, as if telling him, “You’re okay, stay here, be brave.”
But bravery is hard when you’re so small. He tries to scoot closer, dragging his tiny belly through the soft leaves, reaching out one little hand toward her tail. But Mama moves just a bit farther, sniffing the ground for bugs and sweet shoots of grass.
The baby monkey’s squeaks grow louder — tiny cries that echo through the calm clearing. He shifts side to side, rocking his little body as if the movement might pull her back.
He doesn’t want fruit or bugs or play. He just wants her warmth, her soft arms wrapped around him, her gentle fingers picking through his fur and whispering that he’s safe.
Finally, Mama turns back, hearing his cries grow sharp and desperate. With a soft grunt, she returns and scoops him up into her arms. The moment he feels her fur against his cheek, his tiny cries turn into quiet hiccups.
He presses his head under her chin, eyes fluttering closed in relief. For now, all is right again — Mama’s here, and her warmth is all he needs.
