The little orphan baby monkey was named Lolo, a tiny creature with soft brown fur, round innocent eyes, and a trembling heart. When he was first rescued, Lolo was terrified of everything — loud sounds, sudden movements, even gentle touches. Losing his mother so young had left deep scars that couldn’t be seen, but were felt every time he whimpered or tried to hide in the corner of his cage.
Every day, his caretaker Mai tried to make him feel loved. She spoke softly to him, offered him warm milk in a tiny bottle, and made sure he had a soft blanket to sleep on. Slowly, Lolo began to trust her. He would crawl onto her lap, clutch her finger with his tiny hands, and look up at her with wide eyes that said, “Please don’t leave me.”
But there was one thing Lolo still couldn’t handle — bath time.
The first time Mai tried to bathe him, Lolo froze. The sound of running water made him flinch, his body stiff as a board. When Mai dipped her hand into the warm water and gently splashed a few drops on his back, he squealed, clutching her arm tightly. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he let out a heartbreaking cry that echoed through the room.
It wasn’t the water that scared him — it was the memory.
Before his rescue, villagers said they saw him clinging to his lifeless mother near a muddy riverbank. Maybe the noise of the rushing water reminded him of that terrible day. Maybe he thought if he got wet again, something bad would happen.
Mai’s heart broke every time she saw him cry. She wanted to comfort him, but she knew she had to keep him clean to stay healthy. So she started slow — every day, just letting him watch her fill the basin. She’d dip her own hand in first, showing him it was safe.
“See, Lolo? It’s warm, not scary,” she whispered, smiling softly.
Lolo would tilt his head and watch, his little lips trembling. Sometimes, he’d reach out his hand to touch the water — then quickly pull it back as if it might hurt him. His trust was fragile, like glass.
Weeks passed. Mai continued her gentle routine. Each bath was a tiny victory. One day, Lolo managed to sit in the basin for a few seconds without crying. Another day, he allowed Mai to pour water over his back while holding her tightly. But still, there were moments when the fear returned — a splash too loud, a movement too fast — and he’d start trembling again, letting out that familiar, heartbreaking cry.
Even after months, he was still so scared every time. 💔
One sunny afternoon, Mai decided to take him outside for his bath. The weather was warm, the birds were singing, and she thought maybe the open air would help him relax. She placed a small plastic tub under a tree, filled it with warm water, and added a few floating toys — a little duck, a tiny fish, and a leaf Lolo loved to play with.
At first, Lolo refused to go near it. He clung to Mai’s shirt, burying his face in her neck. His tiny fingers gripped her tightly, afraid she might let him go.
“It’s okay, baby,” she whispered, kissing the top of his head. “Mommy Mai is here. You’re safe.”
After several minutes of soft reassurance, Lolo finally peeked down at the tub. The sunlight sparkled on the water’s surface, and the toy duck bobbed gently up and down. He stared at it curiously. Mai smiled — curiosity was a good sign. Slowly, she dipped her hand in and splashed a little water toward him.
Lolo blinked. Then, tentatively, he reached out one trembling hand and touched the duck.
It didn’t hurt. It just floated.
Mai laughed softly and said, “Good boy, Lolo.”
Encouraged by her gentle voice, Lolo leaned closer. His tiny reflection stared back at him — big eyes, small wet nose, ears twitching nervously. He looked scared but also brave.
When Mai lifted him carefully and lowered him into the tub, he tensed up at first. His body was shaking, and his tail wrapped tightly around her wrist. But this time, he didn’t cry.
Mai cupped some water in her hand and let it run down his back. “See? It’s nice and warm. You’re doing so well.”
Lolo whimpered softly, but instead of screaming, he looked at her face. Her smile, her calm eyes — they told him everything was okay. Slowly, he started to relax. His breathing slowed, his muscles softened.
Then, something magical happened. He reached down and splashed the water himself — just a tiny splash, but enough to make Mai’s heart swell with joy.
For the first time, the bath wasn’t something terrifying. It was something he could play with.
When Mai took out the towel and wrapped him gently, Lolo clung to her chest, pressing his wet face against her shirt. He let out a soft, tired sigh. He was safe again.
Mai whispered, “You’re my brave boy, Lolo. You did so well today.”
That night, after his milk, Lolo fell asleep in Mai’s arms, smelling clean and fresh. His tiny hands still twitched now and then, as if remembering the water. But his face looked peaceful.
Still, every time bath day came, the fear would return a little. He’d whimper, clutch Mai’s arm, and look at her with pleading eyes. It reminded her how deep trauma can go — how hard it is for a little soul to heal. But Mai never lost patience. She knew that healing takes time, love, and gentleness.
Each bath was a small step toward trust — a quiet victory.
Sometimes, when Lolo cried, Mai cried too. She’d whisper, “I know, my baby. I know it’s scary. But I promise, I’ll never let anything hurt you again.”
And slowly, day by day, his cries grew softer. His fear faded little by little.
Months later, something beautiful happened. Mai turned on the water, filled the basin, and called Lolo. To her surprise, he came running — not hiding. He climbed onto her lap and watched the water curiously. When she placed him in, he didn’t cry. Instead, he reached for the toy duck, splashed a little, and looked up at Mai with a shy smile.
It was a moment she’d never forget. 💕
Even though he was still a little scared every time, he was learning that fear doesn’t last forever — that love can wash it away, one gentle bath at a time.
Now, when people visit and see Lolo’s bath time, they’re often moved to tears. He still trembles a bit when the water touches his fur, still clings to Mai for safety — but he also giggles, plays, and enjoys the warmth.
His cries are no longer cries of fear, but of trust — the sound of a little heart learning what it means to be safe, to be loved, to belong again.
And every time Mai dries him off and holds him close, she whispers the same words:
“You’re not alone anymore, Lolo. You’ll never be alone again.” 🐒💧💔❤️
