The air in the clinic felt heavy that morning. I sat on the hard bench, my hands clasped tightly together, waiting for any sign of news. Little Robin, the tiny baby monkey who had already endured so much, was inside the operating room. His wounds, his fragile body, his crushed fingers — all of it had broken my heart since the day I found him. Now, his future rested in the hands of the doctor.
Minutes felt like hours. Every sound made me flinch, every step in the hallway made my heart beat faster. I whispered prayers under my breath, asking for strength for Robin, asking that he be given another chance to live, to grow, to feel warmth instead of pain.
Finally, the door opened. The doctor stepped out, still wearing gloves, and called my name. My chest tightened, my heart pounded so hard I could hear it echoing in my ears. For a split second, I was too scared to move, too afraid to hear the truth.
But then, the doctor smiled softly. “He’s stable… for now,” he said. My knees nearly gave way from relief. I rushed forward, tears spilling down my cheeks before I could stop them.
Inside, Robin lay small and fragile on the soft blanket, his tiny chest rising and falling slowly. His hand was wrapped carefully, his face pale but calm. I knelt beside him, whispering his name over and over, promising him that he was not alone, that I would stay with him through every moment of recovery.
That day, my heart learned something new — love is not only about joy but also about fear, about pain, and about fighting for someone so small who cannot fight for themselves. Robin was still here, still breathing, and that was everything.
