In the quiet clearing of the jungle, sunlight filtered through the canopy in soft golden rays, dappled across the forest floor where a small drama had just erupted.
A young monkey — no more than a toddler in monkey years — sat crouched on a rock, her little hands covering her face, her tail coiled tightly around her tiny legs. Her name was Lina, and at that very moment, her world felt like it had crumbled.
She was screaming. Loud, shrill, and heart-wrenching. The sound echoed through the trees like a siren of sadness. Birds startled from their branches. A lizard scurried beneath a log. Even the breeze seemed to pause.
She cried not from pain, but from shame, hurt feelings, and a broken little heart.
Only minutes before, Lina had been putting on quite the show — jumping from branch to branch, tugging at her siblings’ tails, stealing bites of fruit that wasn’t hers, and flinging small pebbles at a resting elder. It was her usual mischief, except today, she had taken it a little too far.
Her mother, a firm but loving matriarch named Soriya, had warned her twice — soft but stern sounds, the kind only monkeys understand. “Enough, Lina. Behave.”
But Lina was feeling dramatic. Bold. Important. She flopped onto her back in mock despair when her siblings didn’t laugh at her antics. She puffed up her cheeks, stomped her feet, and made a fuss when she didn’t get the ripest banana.
And then came the final straw — a full-blown tantrum. She screamed, threw herself onto the dirt, kicked her legs, and wailed so loudly the forest seemed to wince.
Soriya had had enough.
With swift grace, she crossed the clearing, scooped Lina up — not gently this time — and gave a sharp, short disciplinary motion: a firm shake, a huff, and a light swat on the bottom.
It wasn’t painful. It wasn’t cruel. It was monkey language for, “That’s enough. You are not in control right now. I am.”
But to Lina, it was the end of everything.
And so now she sat, crying her little lungs out, voice rising in broken sobs that cracked mid-breath. Her tiny frame shuddered with every gasp. Her eyes were squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners. Her lip quivered dramatically. She howled again — not in anger now, but in the purest form of sorrow a young one can feel: My mommy doesn’t love me anymore.
Soriya stood a few feet away, her back turned, pretending not to watch — but of course, watching everything. Her ears were angled slightly back, tuned to the pattern of the cries.
She knew this stage. She knew the difference between “I’m hurt” and “I’m sad you disciplined me.”
And still… her heart ached.
It was never easy, disciplining your baby — even when they were being dramatic, unruly, too loud, too wild. Even when you knew they needed it. Especially then.
Lina sobbed again, louder this time, forcing it out with all the air in her tiny lungs. Her cries cracked, voice breaking as if her heart was truly torn in two.
“WaaaAAAHHH-huh-HUH-HHHHH!”
Nearby, a cousin peeked out from the vines and quickly ducked back in. No one wanted to get involved when Lina was mid-meltdown.
Finally, her voice began to weaken. Her cries turned from high-pitched screams to hiccuped whimpers. She peeked through her fingers, checking if Soriya was still ignoring her.
She was.
This made Lina’s heart ache more. She gave one last dramatic sob, more whimper than wail now, and dropped her head to her knees.
After a moment, Soriya approached — not fast, not slow. Her movements were measured, calm. She crouched beside Lina and reached out one gentle hand to touch her back.
Lina flinched at first, but then melted into the contact.
Soriya pulled her close — not with playful affection, but with quiet, steady warmth. She didn’t speak in coos or cuddles. Instead, she groomed Lina slowly, methodically — the monkey way of saying, You are safe. I still love you. But I meant what I said.
Lina sniffled loudly, then softer, letting herself be groomed. She leaned into her mother’s arms, curled like a baby again. The drama faded. The sobbing slowed. She hiccupped twice, then whimpered once, then rested her cheek on Soriya’s shoulder.
The forest resumed its rhythm. Birds returned to their branches. Leaves danced in the wind again.
Soriya smoothed Lina’s fur, working out the tangles from her tantrum, pulling tiny leaves from her tail. With each touch, Lina’s breathing calmed, until finally, she let out a long, slow sigh — that kind of baby sigh that means, I’ve cried enough now. I’m tired. I just want to be held.
Soriya cradled her close. No words were spoken — monkeys don’t need them. Everything was in the posture, the softness of touch, the patience in the silence.
After a while, Lina stirred. She looked up at her mother with big, puffy eyes. Soriya looked back, unblinking but tender.
And then, as if nothing had happened, Lina reached out to pat her mother’s chest with her tiny hand — a small, subtle gesture that said: I’m sorry.
Soriya accepted it, brushing her fingers along Lina’s cheek.
A few moments later, Lina was scampering off again — not as wildly this time, not as loud. She stuck close to Soriya’s side, her earlier defiance dampened by the memory of those tears.
But she glanced back once at the rock where she’d sat and screamed — a little monument to the drama of the morning. Maybe she’d return there again someday, for another performance.
But not today.
Today, she had learned something — not through anger or pain, but through boundaries, love, and discipline.
And Soriya? She watched her little one with quiet grace, knowing this was just one of many days in the long dance of motherhood: loving, correcting, comforting, and letting go.
Behind her calm eyes was the same thought that echoed in every mother’s heart — monkey or human:
Discipline is not distance. Love holds even when it’s firm.
And deep in the jungle, under golden rays of light, a little monkey’s cry faded into peace.
