No one was prepared for Leo.
The newborn baby monkey arrived suddenly, fragile and quiet, as if dropped into the world without warning. One moment the space was calm, the next it was filled with urgency. Leo lay tiny and still, his body barely moving, breath shallow and uneven. He was unexpected in every way.
Dad noticed first.
The moment he saw Leo, his instincts switched on. His eyes never left the newborn’s chest, watching every rise and fall. Too slow. Too fast. He leaned closer, listening, counting breaths in silence. Leo was so small that even breathing felt like a risk.
Dad didn’t sit down. He didn’t relax. He stayed alert, hovering nearby, hands ready, heart racing. Every sound Leo made—every twitch, every tiny squeak—made Dad tense. This wasn’t fear. It was responsibility landing heavy all at once.
Leo’s eyes fluttered open briefly, unfocused and weak. He made a faint sound, barely louder than a breath. Dad moved instantly, adjusting the cloth, checking warmth, checking position. Newborns aren’t loud when they’re in trouble. They’re quiet. And that scared him most.
The room stayed dim and still. No excitement. No celebration. Just careful movements and constant watchfulness. Dad warmed milk slowly, testing it again and again, afraid of rushing anything. Leo needed gentleness, not speed.
When Leo finally drank a little, Dad exhaled for the first time. Just a little. Not enough to relax. He stayed close, eyes locked on Leo’s face, alert even as minutes passed.
Leo slept again, tiny fingers curling softly. He looked peaceful, but Dad knew better. Peace didn’t mean safety yet. Not tonight.
Unexpected babies change everything. They turn calm into vigilance, silence into listening. Leo didn’t ask to arrive this way, but he did one powerful thing.
He made Dad stay awake.
And in that alertness—those tired eyes refusing to close—Leo was protected. Not by plans or preparation, but by love that showed up instantly, fiercely, and without question.
That night, Leo slept.
Dad didn’t.
