In the quiet corner of the house, a tiny baby monkey sat inside a woven basket, his small body trembling with impatience. His wide eyes darted around, and then came the first cry—sharp, loud, and full of desperation. He wasn’t just calling; he was demanding. His little tummy was empty, and in his world, nothing mattered more than the warm comfort of his mother’s milk.
The cries grew louder, echoing through the room, as he stretched his hands toward the air, hoping someone would notice his plea. He tossed and turned in the basket, his tiny legs kicking at the sides as if trying to climb out. His voice was so strong for such a small body, a mix of anger, sadness, and longing.
Daddy hurried over, peeking into the basket with a worried smile. “Shhh, little one. Mommy is coming,” he whispered, but the baby wouldn’t calm down. His face was red, his mouth wide open as he screamed even harder. The sound was heartbreaking, like the voice of someone afraid to be forgotten.
Finally, the familiar footsteps came—Mommy arrived with the milk bottle, holding it gently in her hands. The moment the baby monkey saw it, his cries broke into soft whimpers, his tiny hands reaching desperately for the comfort he had been waiting for.
As soon as the nipple touched his lips, silence fell. The loud screams melted into peaceful gulps. His little body relaxed, his hands resting on the bottle as though holding onto his lifeline. Within minutes, his tummy was full, his cries forgotten, and his eyes slowly fluttered closed.
That basket, once filled with echoes of sorrow, was now the cradle of calm. The baby monkey drifted to sleep, safe in the warmth of love and milk.
