After a warm midday swim, the little baby monkey clings to a thick branch high above the riverbank. Her tiny fur is still damp, sticking up in funny tufts that make her shiver every time the wind blows through the leaves. She looks down at the sparkling water below — the same water her mother carried her through just moments ago.
For Mama, the swim was a normal lesson — a way to teach her baby that water is part of the forest life. Mama moved calmly, her strong arms guiding the little one through the cool shallows. But for the baby, every splash felt too big, every ripple too deep. She squeaked and clung tight, tiny hands gripping Mama’s fur with all her strength.
Now, perched up in the tree afterward, the baby is not happy at all. Her little face is scrunched into a frown, her round eyes blinking away drops of water still dripping from her ears. She chirps out soft, complaining sounds, glancing back at Mama as if to say: Why did you do that?
Mama, sitting on a nearby branch, grooms her fur dry, calm and unbothered by her baby’s tiny tantrum. She reaches over now and then to pat the baby’s damp head or pull her closer, but the little one wiggles away and pouts, determined to show she didn’t like the surprise swim at all.
Above them, the leaves sway gently in the breeze, drying the baby bit by bit. A curious butterfly lands near her toes. Distracted for a moment, she forgets her big upset, reaches out with a soft squeal, then pulls her hand back, remembering she’s still supposed to be cross with Mama.
Tomorrow she’ll swim again, maybe happier — but for now, she clings to her branch, grumbling, warm and safe.
