The forest was quiet, hushed beneath the soft breath of dawn. Dew clung to every leaf and branch, the world shimmering with early light. Somewhere high in the canopy, birds began their morning calls, but near the forest floor, a small, fragile life had just begun.
He was barely a few hours old — a tiny baby monkey, still wet from birth, limbs trembling, eyes closed. His fur, thin and damp, stuck to his skin. He didn’t know yet what the world was, what light was, or even that he was separate from the warmth that held him.
That warmth was his mother, Samnang. She cradled him against her chest, her arms curled protectively around his tiny form. She had done this before — she was an experienced mother — but that didn’t make this moment any less sacred.
She knew what came next.
The baby had to drink.
He had to nurse.
He had to find her breast, latch on, and take his first sip of life-giving milk — milk her body had been preparing for months. Milk filled with the nutrients, antibodies, and love that only a mother could make.
But the baby didn’t know.
He’d never done this before.
And he was struggling.
He squirmed weakly, mouth opening and closing, making tiny, breathy squeaks. His head bobbed blindly against her chest, his face nuzzling the fur, but he didn’t understand what he was looking for.
Samnang tilted her body slightly, repositioning him with gentle hands. She guided his small head downward, toward the source — a gesture shaped by generations of instinct. She pressed him gently against her breast.
But he turned away, confused.
His mouth brushed her fur, then pulled back.
He whimpered — a tiny, pitiful sound.
He was hungry. His belly was empty. But he didn’t know how to feed himself. The world was still new, and his instincts were slow to surface.
Samnang tried again. She nudged him softly, lowered her head to whisper a soft, reassuring sound. She placed her hand behind his back, drawing him in.
This time, he opened his mouth wider, rooting.
For a moment, it seemed like he’d found it.
But again, he missed. His lips slid off, sucking only air. He cried softly in frustration, his tiny body shaking.
Samnang felt a knot in her chest — not just milk, but worry.
Around them, other monkeys in the troop watched from the trees. Some mothers knew that look — the anxious first-time latching, the trembling confusion, the cries of a baby who couldn’t yet feed. It happened sometimes. It didn’t always end well.
But Samnang didn’t give up.
She held him tighter, stroking his back, whispering soft coos. Her eyes, dark and full of devotion, never left his face. She brought him back to her chest, carefully, slowly.
He whimpered again, still fumbling. His tiny hands gripped her fur, pulling weakly. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again.
Samnang could feel his distress building — the soft cries turning into small sobs. He was trying. He wanted to feed. His instincts were awakening. But his body didn’t yet know what to do.
Minutes passed.
The sun climbed a little higher.
Still, he hadn’t fed.
And then — a tiny shift.
His lips brushed her nipple again, but this time, he lingered. He mouthed it, uncertain, then latched — clumsily, softly, but enough.
Samnang froze, hardly breathing.
He suckled once, then pulled back.
Then again.
A pause.
Then — a stronger latch. His tiny cheeks moved. His mouth began to work. A swallow.
Samnang’s heart leapt.
He was drinking.
The baby monkey’s body stilled as warmth filled his belly. He drank slowly, greedily, unsure but learning. His hands relaxed. His cries faded. His breathing evened out. The nourishment soothed him, the taste familiar in some way he couldn’t understand.
Samnang closed her eyes, overcome with quiet relief. She cradled him closer, letting her body do what it was made to do. Her arms curled tighter around him as he fed — the first true connection between mother and child now complete.
Above them, sunlight filtered through the trees, catching in the strands of her fur. The other mothers relaxed. A few let out soft grunts of approval.
