High in the tangled branches of an old forest tree, a mother monkey shifts restlessly, trying to find a comfortable spot for herself and her baby. The baby, so small and light, clings tightly to her belly — trusting completely that every step Mama takes will keep him safe.
But the branches are crowded today. The troop is noisy, pushing and climbing to reach the sweetest fruits near the top. As the mother monkey climbs higher, she pulls herself forward quickly, nudging aside leaves and twigs. She doesn’t notice her baby slipping lower on her chest, his tiny hands gripping at her fur for dear life.
In one sudden, careless moment, she swings her arm to steady herself — and her elbow bumps her baby’s tiny body just enough to loosen his grip. Before she can catch him, the baby tumbles down, slipping through thin branches and dry leaves until he lands hard on the forest floor below.
A sharp cry echoes through the trees — so small, but so piercing it makes the other monkeys pause. The baby lies still for a moment, too shocked to move. His tiny chest rises and falls quickly, dizzy from the fall and hurting all over. He tries to stand but flops back down, his head spinning.
Above, Mama freezes. She looks down with wide, panicked eyes, chattering in distress. In seconds, she scrambles down the trunk, pushing aside low branches and dry vines until she reaches his side.
She picks him up gently, turning him over and over, grooming his dusty fur and licking the scrapes on his arms. The baby whimpers softly, his little eyes half-closed with pain.
Cradled back in Mama’s arms, he rests his head against her chest. She holds him tighter than ever, a silent promise: I didn’t mean to let you fall. I’m here now.
