It was a warm afternoon, and little Chorda sat on the wooden step outside the house, her big round eyes following her mother’s every move. She had been waiting patiently — or at least as patiently as a baby monkey could — for some sweet cuddles. But instead of scooping her up, Mom returned from the yard holding a small bunch of fresh grass.
Chorda’s little face twisted instantly into a pout. Grass? That was not what she wanted. She wanted warmth, the familiar heartbeat of Mom holding her close. But Mom simply placed the grass down beside her, as if it were a gift, and went about her chores.
The baby’s tail flicked restlessly, and her lips began to tremble. Her tiny hands clenched into fists, and then the protest began — a sharp, high-pitched cry that filled the yard. She stomped her little feet, bouncing on the step in frustration, her fur bristling.
Mom glanced over but didn’t rush to pick her up. Instead, she gave a calm chattering sound, as if to say, “Be patient, my little one.” That only made Chorda squeak louder, her voice filled with the injustice of it all.
The grass lay untouched at her side. She pushed it away with a dramatic sweep of her hand, looking at Mom with eyes that clearly said, This is not what I asked for.
Finally, after finishing her task, Mom returned and bent down. The moment Chorda felt those familiar arms lift her, the tantrum melted away. She snuggled into Mom’s chest, pressing her tiny face into the soft fur, as if making sure Mom couldn’t put her down again.
