In the middle of the quiet yard, little Hurly lay curled on the ground, his tiny body shaking with sobs. His chest rose and fell fast, and his face was scrunched in helpless pain. He wasn’t sick—he was heartbroken.
Just minutes earlier, he had run up to his mama, chirping happily, expecting her arms, her warmth, maybe even a quick cuddle or a drop of milk. But instead of scooping him up, his mom walked away.
Not out of cruelty—she was just tired. A long morning of feeding and tending to Hurly had drained her. She needed a moment for herself. But Hurly didn’t understand that.
To him, it felt like rejection.
So there he was—sobbing, tiny hands clenched, tail twitching, his cries rising louder and louder. He even started to shake slightly, overwhelmed by the storm of emotions inside his little heart. It wasn’t a seizure from illness—it was a seizure from pure sorrow.
Other monkeys glanced over, unsure whether to approach. Caregivers watched closely, ready to step in. But then—Mama turned back.
She saw him.
Her eyes softened. She walked quickly, scooped him into her arms, and held him tight against her chest. Hurly gripped her instantly, burying his face into her fur, the cries slowly easing.
No words were spoken—just the quiet rhythm of his breathing settling, the soft hum of his mother comforting him again.
He wasn’t angry anymore. Just relieved.
Because sometimes, baby monkeys feel too much. And all it takes to fix their whole world is their mother’s touch.
