The poor baby monkey clung weakly to his mother’s belly, his tiny arms trembling as he nestled close, desperate for comfort and warmth. His mother had given him all the milk she could, her thin body struggling to produce enough to fill his little stomach. He drank eagerly, his small mouth suckling with hunger that had built for hours, maybe longer. For a moment, he seemed at peace, his fragile body pressed into hers, safe and full.
But too soon, the relief faded. His stomach lurched, and a small whimper escaped his lips. His delicate fingers gripped his mother’s fur tighter, as if holding onto her could stop the sickness rising inside him. His tiny mouth opened, and before he could understand what was happening, a thin stream of warm milk spilled out, splashing onto his trembling hands and his mother’s matted fur.
His little body convulsed, his chest heaving with each wave of nausea. His eyes, wide with confusion and fear, darted to his mother’s face, searching for comfort, for reassurance. But she could only watch, helpless, her own strength too drained to do anything but hold him close.
Tears welled up in the baby’s eyes, mingling with the milky residue clinging to his fur. His body was too small to handle such distress, his stomach too fragile for the milk meant to nourish him. His tiny cries were hoarse and weak, his voice cracking under the weight of his misery.
Still, he clung to his mother, as if her presence alone could ease the twisting pain in his belly. And though the forest paid no mind to the suffering of such a small creature, the mother monkey’s heart broke with every heave, every cry — because even in her silence, she felt every ache as if it were her own.
