High in the forest canopy, where the warm wind rustles the leaves and sunlight flickers through the branches, a mother monkey sits on a wide branch, breathing hard. Her fur is ruffled from the day’s constant demands — foraging for food, watching for danger, grooming her troop, and caring for her baby who never seems to rest.
Her baby is lively and stubborn. He clings to her belly so tightly that even when she tries to shift, his tiny hands grab her fur with surprising strength. He squeaks when she stops moving, tugs when she tries to nap, and pushes his little nose into her chest, always wanting more milk even though he’s grown enough to eat fruit and leaves.
Today, she has reached her limit. She brushes him off her chest for a moment just to catch her breath. But the baby scrambles back up immediately, squealing with soft complaints that echo through the trees.
She chatters back sharply — a mother’s warning. But he ignores her. He crawls over her back, pulling her fur as he climbs, stubborn in his tiny determination to stay close and nurse again.
Finally, with a tired sigh, she slips from the branch, swinging gracefully through the trees. She moves faster than usual, hoping he’ll give up and stay behind. But his squeaks follow her, little feet thumping against the bark as he tries to keep up.
She pauses on a high branch, looking back at her determined baby. He sits there, breathless but hopeful, reaching his small hands toward her. For a moment, her eyes soften — tired but loving. She turns away again, knowing tomorrow she’ll welcome him back to her chest.
For now, though, she just needs a moment of quiet, swinging alone through the gentle forest breeze.
