Deep inside the forest where the sunlight dances through high branches, a tiny baby monkey sits alone on a wide, mossy log. His soft fur, still baby-fine, is fluffed up against the cool breeze as he watches his mother move further away through the trees.
From the moment he was born, all he knew was her heartbeat — the warm chest he clung to, the gentle sway as she moved. But as days passed, something changed. Maybe she grew tired, maybe a new baby claimed her care, or maybe she simply didn’t feel the bond that should have tied her close to him.
Now, whenever he squeaks and crawls close, she shifts away. When he reaches out his tiny hands, she turns her head, pretending not to hear his soft cries. He tries to climb onto her back, but she shrugs him off gently at first, then more firmly each time.
So he sits by himself, eyes wide, looking at her from the shadows while she grooms herself in the sun. Each time she moves, he scoots forward, hope flickering in his tiny heart. But when she glances back, her eyes hold no warmth — only a quiet distance that he can’t understand.
Sometimes he calls out, a tiny trembling sound that echoes through the leaves. The other monkeys glance his way, some curious, some indifferent. A playful sibling might tug his tail or sniff his ear, but no one stays.
Still, he waits. He curls into himself, nose tucked against his own little arms, hoping she will turn back, open her arms, and let him in again.
Even if the mother’s love never returns, deep in his small heart he holds onto a hope that one day, someone will see him, lift him up, and remind him he’s not unworthy of love.
