There is a kind of magic that happens deep inside the forest at sunrise—a moment when the light spills through the trees like golden curtains and the world seems to breathe awake. But on this particular morning, the magic wasn’t in the sunrise, or the birdsong, or even the gentle breeze stirring the leaves. The magic, instead, was in a family of tiny monkeys waiting for me with the most mischievous eyes I had ever seen.
I had been visiting the forest village for several days, and feeding the monkeys had quickly become the highlight of my mornings. Every day, they would gather near an old stone bench by the riverbank, chattering excitedly, hopping from branch to branch, and peeking at me from behind leaves like little fuzzy spies. But this morning was different. This morning, I brought bread—fresh, warm, and impossibly fragrant.
I barely had time to sit down before I saw them emerging from the trees.
First came Coco, the baby monkey with the brightest eyes and the biggest personality. Coco was tiny—barely the size of my forearm—but he made up for his small size with boundless mischief. He spotted the bread in my hand, froze mid-step, and his eyes grew wide with a mixture of excitement and calculation. It was the kind of look that told me he already had a plan.
Behind him waddled Mimi, his older sister, who always pretended to be the responsible one. She walked with a sense of dignity—chin lifted, steps careful—but her eyes betrayed her. They shimmered with curiosity, mischief, and the irresistible temptation of the bread in my hand.
Then came Max, the father of the group, who had perfected the art of pretending not to care. He strolled out slowly, stretching dramatically as if he had only come out to enjoy the morning sun. But every half-second, his eyes flicked toward the bread with a hunger he tried—and failed—to hide.
Last came Luna, the mother, the calmest of them all. She stayed a bit behind the group, observing quietly, but even she couldn’t mask the way her eyebrows lifted whenever the scent of the bread drifted toward her. Her eyes twinkled with soft amusement, like she already knew the chaos that was about to unfold.
I tore off the first piece of bread and held it out.
Instantly, Coco sprinted forward with a shrill squeak, arms flailing, as if the bread might disappear if he didn’t reach it in time. But just as he was about to grab it, Mimi leaped from behind him, gently pushed him aside, and took the piece like a disciplined little queen. Coco froze in betrayal, then turned to me with the most dramatic expression—wide eyes, mouth slightly open, as though he had just experienced the greatest injustice in monkey history.
I couldn’t help laughing.
Coco stomped his tiny foot, chattered angrily at his sister, then turned to me again with pleading eyes—eyes that sparkled with mischief and desperation. Those eyes were impossible to resist. I tore another piece of bread and offered it to him.
But just as he reached for it, Max appeared out of nowhere, snatching the piece with lightning speed. He didn’t eat it immediately—no, Max did something even worse. He looked straight at Coco and gave him this slow, smug nod, chewing dramatically as if performing for an invisible audience.
The betrayal! The heartbreak! The drama!
Coco shrieked, jumped in circles, then flopped onto the grass and rolled around as though his whole world had collapsed. His eyes, wide and exaggerated, darted between Max, the bread, and me. He wanted revenge. He wanted justice. But most of all, he wanted the next piece of bread.
Mimi sat quietly beside me, nibbling her bread like the gentle princess she believed she was. But every time I looked at her, she quickly pretended to be innocent. The truth was written all over her mischievous eyes—she was plotting her next move, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
I held out another piece, expecting Coco to reach it first. Instead, Mimi stretched her long arm around my leg, sneaking her hand toward the bread like a little furry thief. Her eyes gleamed with the thrill of her own cleverness. Coco saw her plan too late and shrieked in outrage.
But before either could get it, Luna calmly stepped forward, gently took the bread, and sat down beside me as if saying, “Children, please calm yourselves.” She ate slowly, her eyes soft and serene—yet even she allowed a small, mischievous sparkle to show when her husband and children erupted into chaos behind her.
The bread had turned the family into a whirlwind of antics.
At one point, Coco tried climbing onto my shoulder to gain the “high ground,” but fell backward into a pile of leaves, popping out with leaves stuck to his fur like decorations. His eyes looked up at me with an expression somewhere between “help me” and “don’t laugh,” which only made me laugh harder.
Max, pretending to be dignified, attempted to snatch another piece but instead misjudged the distance and missed entirely. He looked around quickly to make sure no one had seen the mistake—but Mimi and Coco had seen everything. Their eyes sparkled with wicked delight.
Then Mimi decided to outsmart everyone. She climbed the tree above me, and from there, reached down upside-down like a little acrobat, attempting to grab bread from my hand. Coco watched with awe, his mouth open and eyes shining as if he had just witnessed the greatest stunt of his life.
Max watched too, but with narrowed eyes, like he was calculating how to copy the move without looking ridiculous.
Meanwhile, Luna simply sat beside me, her eyes calm, her movements gentle. But every so often, she would extend her hand with a tiny grin, as if to remind everyone she knew exactly how to get what she wanted without any of the chaos.
Piece by piece, the bread disappeared. And with every piece, the mischievous eyes of the monkey family grew brighter, funnier, and more expressive. It was like watching a tiny comedy show performed entirely through eye contact, squeaks, and dramatic body language.
When the last piece was gone, all four monkeys froze, staring at me with wide, hopeful eyes. Eyes that begged. Eyes that negotiated. Eyes that promised mischief if I dared return tomorrow with more bread.
And of course… I will.
Because nothing is more heartwarming—or hilarious—than the mischievous eyes of a small monkey family being fed bread in the quiet morning sun of the forest.
