The mother sat on the branch, calm and distant, grooming herself while the baby monkey cried below. The baby’s stomach burned with hunger, tiny hands reaching up, mouth opening wide in desperate calls. Each cry echoed through the quiet air, unanswered. The mother looked once, then away, as if the sound did not belong to her.
The baby crawled closer, weak legs shaking, trying again. Hunger made the world blurry. Milk should have come by now. Warmth. Comfort. Instead, only distance remained. The baby whimpered, then screamed louder, voice cracking with need and fear.
Time passed slowly. The sun climbed higher. The baby’s cries grew hoarse. Small fingers gripped bark and cloth, searching for anything familiar. The mother shifted position, annoyed by the noise, but did not move closer. To the baby, this felt like abandonment.
Hunger is pain for a newborn. It drains strength, clouds thinking, and turns fear into panic. The baby collapsed onto its side, still crying, chest rising fast. Each breath felt heavy. The world felt unsafe.
A caregiver nearby noticed the silence between cries growing longer. Alarm rushed in. This was no tantrum. This was survival. The caregiver approached carefully, watching the mother’s reaction. Still nothing. No protest. No protection.
Gently, the caregiver lifted the baby. The cries flared once more, then softened as warmth returned. A bottle was prepared quickly. When milk touched the baby’s lips, instinct took over. The baby drank desperately, hands clutching tight, eyes closing in relief.
Life returned drop by drop. Color warmed the skin. Breathing slowed. The baby rested against a caring chest, finally safe.
Some mothers fail. Some babies still survive. That day, hunger was answered not by birth, but by compassion. And for the baby monkey, that answer meant everything.
