The first day in his new home was quiet, but heavy for the poor baby monkey. He sat alone near the wall, tiny body pressed close to the corner, peeking again and again as if expecting someone to appear. His eyes followed shadows, ears alert to every sound. Each small noise made his heart jump. Maybe it was her. Maybe mom was coming back.
He didn’t understand the room. The walls were solid and strange, not like trees or branches. He touched the wall with his fingers, cold and unfamiliar, then pulled his hand back quickly. He looked up, then down, confusion clouding his face. This place was safe, but it did not feel like home yet.
The baby hugged his knees and sat very still. No crying at first—just silence filled with longing. His mouth opened slightly, making soft calling sounds, the kind only a mother would recognize. No answer came. His eyes slowly filled with tears, and his small chest rose and fell faster. The loneliness settled in.
Caregivers watched from a distance, giving him space. They knew this moment mattered. This wasn’t fear—it was grief. The baby stood up, walked a few steps, then returned to the wall, peeking again. He believed his mom might be hiding just beyond it. Hope refused to leave him.
Finally, a quiet cry escaped his throat. Not loud. Not angry. Just broken. He sat back down, tail curled close, missing the warmth, the smell, the heartbeat he once knew. His world had changed too fast.
A gentle blanket was placed beside him. A warm hand rested nearby, not forcing, just offering. Slowly, the baby leaned closer. He didn’t stop missing his mom—but he felt less alone.
That first day home was not about comfort. It was about adjustment. Loss. And the beginning of healing. He would learn this place could be safe. But that day, peeking at the wall, his heart was still in his mother’s arms.
