The pitiful baby monkey screamed sharply, a piercing cry that shattered the quiet morning. His tiny hand was injured, swollen and sore, held tight against his chest as if hiding it could erase the pain. Each small movement sent fire through his body, and fear mixed with hurt in every shaky breath he took.
He tried to crawl forward, then collapsed, crying harder. The hand would not help him anymore. Confusion made the pain feel worse. His wide eyes searched desperately for mom, shining with tears and panic. Every cry was a call for safety, for comfort, for someone to make everything feel right again.
Mom rushed in as soon as she heard him. One glance at the injured hand tightened her chest with worry. She lifted him carefully, avoiding the wound, pressing him gently against her heart. His cries stayed loud, but her warmth kept the fear from growing bigger.
She cleaned the injury slowly, speaking in soft, steady tones. When the medicine touched the wound, the baby screamed again, body trembling in protest. Mom did not rush and did not stop. Protection mattered more than the sting, and her calm never left.
Afterward, she wrapped the tiny hand to keep it safe. The sharp screams faded into broken sobs. Exhaustion took over. He clung to mom’s shirt with his good hand, hiding his face against her warmth.
Warm milk followed. He drank while still whimpering, eyes drooping with relief. Pain remained, but panic disappeared. Being held made the world safe again.
Mom rocked him gently, counting his breaths, watching his body relax. Healing would take time, patience, and careful care.
That sharp cry had been a warning and a plea. Wrapped in love, the baby monkey rested, knowing he was no longer alone.
