The morning sun streamed into the small yard, casting a warm glow over the little wooden bench where the baby monkey sat. His eyes were wide with confusion and frustration, his tiny mouth open in loud, desperate cries. All he wanted was milk, but Mom stood a few steps away, her arms crossed in gentle but firm refusal.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love him—she did, more than anything—but she wanted him to learn patience. Breakfast time wasn’t yet, and she was still preparing his food. To the little one, though, the concept of “waiting” was far too big to understand. All he knew was that his tummy felt empty, and the sweet comfort of milk wasn’t in his hands.
He shuffled forward on the ground, little fingers reaching toward her, eyes brimming with tears. His cries grew sharper, almost pleading, as he tilted his head and tried to meet her gaze. But Mom only gave a calm, reassuring look, silently telling him he would be fine.
Frustrated, the baby monkey let out another high-pitched wail, his tail swishing in agitation. He clung to her leg for a moment, as if to physically remind her of his need. But Mom gently pried his hands away and guided him back toward the bench.
Finally, after what felt like forever to him, Mom returned with a small bowl. The rich, warm milk shimmered in the morning light. His cries stopped instantly as she brought it closer. He grabbed it eagerly, drinking in big, greedy gulps, his earlier sadness melting into pure relief.
With his tummy now full, the little one curled up beside her, all forgiven. The lesson in patience might not have sunk in yet—but for now, he was happy again in the safety of his mother’s care
