Baby monkey Shala sat curled in the corner by the wall, her tiny body pressed close as if the hard surface could somehow protect her heart. Dad’s warning voice had just faded, not loud or cruel, but firm enough to stop her mischief. To Shala, it felt heavy. Confusing. Painful. Her world suddenly felt smaller.
She didn’t scream this time. Instead, a soft, sad moan escaped her throat again and again. It was low, trembling, full of hurt feelings she didn’t know how to explain. Her head leaned against the wall, eyes half-closed, lashes wet with tears that slid slowly down her cheeks. One tiny hand rested on the floor, the other pulled close to her chest.
Shala wasn’t angry anymore. She was sad. The warning made her feel pushed away, as if love had stepped back. In her little mind, correction felt like rejection. She sniffled quietly, shoulders rising and falling as she breathed through the ache. Every moan sounded like a question: Am I still loved?
Dad watched from nearby, heart aching. He knew the warning was needed to keep her safe, but seeing Shala like this hurt deeply. She looked so small, so fragile, so overwhelmed by emotions bigger than her body. He didn’t rush her. He gave her a moment to feel.
Shala shifted slightly, glancing back to see if Dad was still there. When their eyes met, her moan softened. Dad slowly knelt down, lowering himself to her level. He spoke gently, voice warm and calm, explaining with care. His hand reached out, not to scold, but to comfort.
The moment Shala felt his touch, her body leaned toward him. The sad moans turned into quiet whimpers. She crawled into his arms, burying her face against his chest. Her breathing slowed. Her grip tightened, needing reassurance more than anything else.
The corner was forgotten. The warning faded. What remained was closeness.
Shala wasn’t being punished. She was being taught. And in that lesson, she learned something far more important—that even when corrected, love never leaves her side.
