The baby monkey was very small, much smaller than he should have been for his age. His fur was thin and soft, sticking up in every direction like he had just rolled out of bed and forgotten to fix it. His eyes were big, dark, and shiny—eyes that seemed far too large for such a tiny face. They were eyes that looked for comfort everywhere and found it almost nowhere.
His name was Toto.
No one knew exactly how Toto became alone. Some said his mother was frightened away. Others believed she was injured and could not return. What everyone agreed on was this: one morning, Toto was there… and his mother was not.
At first, Toto waited quietly.
He sat near the tree where he had last clung to her warm chest, wrapping his little arms around himself. Every sound made his head lift. Every rustle of leaves made his heart jump. He expected to see her familiar shape appear at any moment.
But she didn’t come.
Minutes passed. Then hours.
And that’s when the tantrum began.
It started with a small whimper. A soft, broken sound that barely carried through the air. Toto’s lips trembled, and his eyes filled with tears. He stood up on shaky legs and cried out again, louder this time, calling in a voice that sounded far too big for his tiny body.
No answer.
The whimper turned into a wail.
Toto threw his little arms into the air and stomped his feet against the ground. He screamed—not out of anger, but out of confusion and fear. His whole world had changed, and he didn’t understand why.
He rolled onto his back, kicking his legs wildly. He flailed, he cried, he screamed again. Leaves stuck to his fur as he thrashed, but he didn’t care. His tantrum was huge, dramatic, and heartbreaking all at once.
Other monkeys watched from a distance.
Some tilted their heads. Some chattered softly. A few came closer, curious but unsure. Toto’s cries echoed through the trees, sharp and desperate. He pounded the ground with his tiny fists as if demanding the universe fix its mistake.
“Where are you?” his cries seemed to say.
“Come back.”
“I need you.”
At one point, Toto grabbed a small stick and threw it with all his strength—which, for a baby monkey, meant it landed about two steps away. That only made him angrier. He screamed louder, his face scrunched tight, his tail flicking back and forth like a storm cloud behind him.
This was not a cute tantrum.
This was a grand tantrum—the kind that comes from loss.
Eventually, his energy began to fade. His cries softened into sobs. He sat down heavily, shoulders slumped, chest rising and falling too fast. Tears slid down his cheeks, leaving dark trails in his fur.
That’s when gentle hands appeared.
A caretaker approached slowly, carefully, speaking in a calm, soothing voice. Toto noticed immediately. He stiffened, unsure. He scooted backward, eyes wide. Another cry escaped his mouth—smaller now, tired.
The caretaker didn’t rush.
They crouched down, lowered themselves to Toto’s level, and waited. No sudden moves. No pressure. Just patience.
Toto stared.
He sniffed.
He cried again, but this time it was quieter, almost questioning.
The caretaker held out a soft cloth, warm and clean. Toto hesitated, then reached out with one trembling hand. He grabbed the edge of the cloth tightly, as if afraid it would disappear too.
And just like that… the tantrum cracked.
Toto leaned forward, pressing his face into the fabric. His cries turned into hiccupping breaths. His tiny body shook as all the fear and frustration poured out at once. The caretaker gently wrapped him up, holding him close without squeezing.
Toto melted.
His fists relaxed. His legs curled in. He clung tightly, burying his face as deep as he could. The grand tantrum was over, replaced by pure exhaustion.
He had fought the world.
Now he just needed to rest.
Over the next few days, Toto had more tantrums. Some big. Some small. Sometimes he cried when he woke up. Sometimes he screamed when he didn’t see a familiar face right away. Other times, he threw dramatic fits over food, blankets, or nothing at all.
But slowly, things changed.
He learned that hands would come when he cried. That warmth didn’t disappear forever. That food arrived regularly. That naps were safe. That he wasn’t alone anymore.
One afternoon, Toto threw another tantrum—this time because his milk was two seconds late. He kicked, squeaked, and flopped onto his back.
Then he paused.
Looked up.
And smiled.
Even Toto seemed surprised.
The tantrum ended with a giggle.
From that day on, his grand tantrums became smaller and sillier. Still dramatic, still loud—but no longer filled with fear. They were just baby monkey emotions, big and messy and completely honest.
Toto was still abandoned.
But he was no longer alone.
And every day, that made all the difference. 🐒💛
