Deep in the shade of an old fig tree, a tiny baby monkey sits alone on a thick branch. His eyes follow every bite that his mother takes — watching, waiting, hoping for just one sweet piece to fall into his tiny hands.
The mother monkey, tired and hungry herself, found a cluster of ripe fruit after hours of searching. She pulls the figs close, peeling them quickly, stuffing soft bites into her mouth. Her baby squeaks and crawls closer, reaching out with both tiny arms, eyes wide with quiet begging.
But the mother turns away each time, guarding the precious food tightly against her chest. She shifts her body, blocking the baby’s reach, snapping softly at him when he gets too close. The baby flinches back, blinking in confusion. His tiny belly rumbles, but he does not understand why Mama won’t share the sweetness that makes her strong enough to keep moving through the trees.
Other mothers nearby share tiny bites with their little ones, brushing crumbs from soft cheeks, grooming them between every mouthful. But this baby monkey sits alone, curling his tail tight around the branch for warmth. He whimpers a quiet cry that only the leaves seem to hear.
Once, he tries again — crawling closer, pressing his tiny head against Mama’s side. She brushes him away gently this time, but her eyes stay fixed on the last fig in her hands. She eats quickly, ignoring the tiny squeaks at her feet.
When the meal is gone, Mama lifts him up again. She carries him under her belly, like nothing happened, like the hunger doesn’t matter. But in his tiny heart, the ache remains — not just for food, but for the comfort he hoped would come with it.
Tomorrow, maybe Mama will share. Until then, the little one waits
