Baby monkey Maocau sat alone, his small body stiff with emotion the moment Mom turned away. At first, he only watched, eyes following her steps, hoping she would come back quickly. But when the distance grew and her voice faded, something inside him snapped.
He cried out loudly, not soft or pleading, but sharp and angry.
Maocau’s face twisted with frustration. His tiny hands slammed against the floor as if demanding an explanation. How could she leave? Didn’t she know he needed her right now? His cry carried more anger than sadness, a moody protest from a baby who felt abandoned even for a moment.
He stood up, wobbling, then sat back down hard. Tears spilled, but he didn’t wipe them away. He wanted Mom to see. He wanted her to understand how much it hurt. His cries echoed through the room, growing louder, rougher, filled with a mix of hunger, fear, and wounded pride.
Inside his small heart, confusion burned. Babies don’t understand time. A short absence feels endless. Anger became his shield, protecting him from the fear underneath. If he sounded strong enough, maybe she would come back faster.
Minutes passed slowly. Maocau’s screams cracked into sobs. His body shook, exhaustion catching up with emotion. He curled slightly, still crying, but weaker now. The anger faded, leaving only sadness behind.
Then footsteps.
Maocau froze. His head lifted. When Mom appeared, his anger vanished instantly. He cried louder, but differently now—relief poured out with every sound. He rushed forward and clung to her leg, refusing to let go.
Mom knelt and lifted him, holding him close, whispering softly. Maocau buried his face into her chest, sobbing until his body relaxed. His mood melted away, replaced by warmth and safety.
Being left had hurt deeply. Being returned healed everything.
That day, Maocau showed that even anger can be love in disguise. Sometimes babies don’t cry because they are naughty. They cry because they care too much—and because the person they love most is their whole world.
