In the dense, humid canopy of the jungle, a tiny newborn monkey named Tong clung tightly to a low-hanging branch. His limbs trembled, barely strong enough to hold on, but it wasn’t the branch he wanted—it was his mother.
Tong’s cries pierced the quiet air, soft at first, then rising into sharp, desperate wails. His tiny face scrunched in distress, lips quivering, eyes squeezed shut as tears slipped down his fuzzy cheeks. This was no ordinary whimper. It was a full-blown newborn tantrum, a flood of emotion from a baby who knew only one need: Mama.
He arched his back, waving his spindly arms in the air as if she might appear from the leaves above. But no soft fur brushed against him. No warm arms scooped him up. The absence was unbearable. The little monkey cried louder, his breath hitching between sobs.
Nearby, other monkeys watched with mild concern, but none stepped in. Tong’s mother had gone just moments ago, perhaps to gather food or escape the swarm of buzzing flies that had bothered them all morning. But to Tong, each second stretched into eternity.
His tiny body shook as the crying continued, his need for comfort overwhelming. Tong wasn’t just upset—he was heartbroken, flooded with fear and longing. His cries held deep pity, the kind that grips even the coldest heart.
Then, through the trees, came the sound he craved—a soft, familiar call. Mama was returning.
Tong’s sobs turned into choked hiccups. His wide, tear-streaked eyes lit up as she swung toward him. In seconds, he was wrapped in her arms, cradled against her chest.
The tantrum faded as quickly as it came. Tong nuzzled into her warmth, calm at last.
He didn’t need anything else. Just Mama.
