The poor lady farmer stood quietly at the edge of her small rice field, holding a fragile baby monkey in her tired arms. Her life was simple, and so were her resources. When she found the baby alone and crying, she did what she could with what she had. Every day, she softly cooked rice, mashed it gently, and tried to feed him, hoping it would be enough.
But the baby monkey was too young. His tiny body needed milk, warmth, and nutrients his weak stomach could not find in rice alone. He cried often, a thin, pitiful sound filled with hunger and confusion. His eyes looked dull, his movements slow. Even while eating, he seemed unsatisfied, as if something important was missing.
The farmer’s heart ached each time she heard his cries. She didn’t ignore him. She stayed up late, waking at night to check on him, whispering softly, apologizing in her own way. She loved him, but love alone could not replace what his body truly needed.
The baby grew weaker day by day. His cries became softer, turning into tired whimpers. He clung to her fingers, instinctively searching for milk he would never find. Watching him struggle made the woman realize something painful—good intentions were not enough.
With tears in her eyes, she asked for help. She knew letting him go was the only way to save him. When help finally arrived, the baby was gently taken, wrapped in warmth, and given milk for the first time. Instantly, his body relaxed, and his eyes slowly closed as he drank.
The farmer watched quietly, her heart heavy but relieved. She hadn’t failed him. She had loved him the only way she knew how—and then she chose his life over her pride.
Sometimes kindness means knowing our limits. Thanks to her honesty and care, the baby monkey was given a chance to live, grow, and heal. Her rice was not enough, but her compassion saved his life.
