The afternoon sun filtered through the trees, painting soft golden patches on the floor. In the middle of the room sat baby monkey Yuri, her small face pouty and her tiny arms folded in frustration. Nearby, Mom held a warm bottle of milk, calling gently, “Come here, my little girl. It’s milk time.”
But Yuri didn’t move. She glanced up at the bottle, licked her lips, and then looked away, pretending not to care. Mom tilted her head, amused but patient. “Yuri, you have to walk to Mommy first,” she said softly, wiggling the bottle in front of her. “Come on, sweetheart, just a few steps.”
Yuri’s tail twitched in defiance. Instead of walking, she gave a soft grunt and turned her back, sitting down stubbornly. Her tiny belly growled, but her pride was louder than her hunger. Mom sighed, smiling a little — she knew this baby’s personality too well.
“Okay, I see,” Mom chuckled. “You want Mommy to come to you, huh?” But still, she waited, hoping Yuri would take the initiative. After a moment, Yuri peeked over her shoulder, eyes locked on the milk again. Her hands trembled slightly — she really wanted it.
Mom tried again, her voice kind and playful, “Come here, baby. You’re such a big girl now. Show Mommy how you walk.”
Yuri shifted a little but refused to move. Instead, she made a small cry, the kind that said, “You come here instead!” Mom laughed softly, realizing this wasn’t a battle she’d win today.
Finally, she walked over, kneeling beside the stubborn little monkey. “Alright, my princess,” she said, bringing the bottle close. The moment Yuri saw it, her tantrum disappeared. She grabbed it eagerly, sucking the warm milk with both hands.
Mom brushed her fur gently. “You’re such a spoiled little one,” she whispered lovingly. Yuri looked up for a second, milk still dripping from her lips, then buried her face against Mom’s arm.
As the sun set, the two sat quietly — one patient, one stubborn — but bound by love. Even without walking, Yuri still found her way into her mother’s arms.
Because sometimes, love doesn’t need steps — just hearts that always find each other.
