The newborn baby monkey suddenly burst into furious cries when his tiny finger failed to reach his mouth. He tried again and again, turning his head, stretching his small hand, but nothing worked the way he wanted. Confusion flashed across his big, watery eyes, and frustration quickly turned into anger.
Sucking his finger was the only comfort he knew. It reminded him of warmth, safety, and the closeness he had lost too soon. Without it, his world felt broken. His face scrunched tight, lips trembling before opening wide in a loud, angry scream. His little body stiffened, legs kicking as if to fight the feeling he couldn’t understand.
He cried with rage, not because he was naughty, but because he was scared. Hunger, tiredness, and loneliness all collided inside his tiny chest. Every failed attempt to suck his finger made the cries louder, sharper, more desperate. Tears rolled down his cheeks as his breathing became fast and uneven.
Gentle hands hurried to him, trying to guide his finger back to his mouth. For a moment, he resisted, still angry, still shaking. Then suddenly, his finger touched his lips. Instinct took over. He latched on, sucking hard, as if afraid the comfort would disappear again.
Almost instantly, his cries softened. His body relaxed little by little. The anger drained away, replaced by quiet sniffles. His eyes slowly closed halfway, blinking lazily as peace returned. His breathing steadied, and the tension melted from his tiny limbs.
Held close and warm, he continued to suck his finger, finally calm. The storm had passed. This newborn wasn’t angry without reason—he was overwhelmed, fragile, and desperately holding onto the one small comfort that made him feel safe.
Sometimes, for a newborn heart, losing comfort feels like losing everything.
