The afternoon sun filtered gently through the leaves, casting soft rays of gold onto the small enclosure where little Cici, the baby monkey, sat clutching her mother’s tail. Her big brown eyes blinked anxiously as she watched me approach — the human she had slowly grown to trust. Every day, I fed her, talked to her softly, and played with her under the shade of the mango tree. She had learned that I wasn’t going to hurt her. But today… she could sense something different.
The smell of soap and warm water drifted through the air, and immediately, Cici’s grip on her mother’s fur tightened. Her tiny face wrinkled, her lips pressed together, and her tail flicked nervously. It was bath time — her least favorite moment of the day.
For weeks, I’d been trying to make bathing a calm, happy routine for her. But even though she had started to trust me, the memory of her first bath still haunted her. Back then, she had been found covered in dirt after tumbling through a muddy ditch during the rainy season. We had no choice but to clean her up, but the cold water, the strange sounds, and the feeling of being held tightly terrified her. That day, she had cried so much that her tiny voice became hoarse, and since then, even the sight of a bucket made her tremble.
Now, as I knelt beside the basin, I spoke softly, “Cici, it’s okay, sweetheart. Just a quick bath today. Warm water, see? Not cold this time.”
She tilted her head, watching the water ripple. Her little hand reached forward, then quickly pulled back. Her eyes darted to me, full of both curiosity and fear. It was as if she wanted to believe me… but a part of her still remembered that terrifying first experience.
Her mother, sitting nearby, made a soft cooing sound — a reassurance only a mother could give. Cici glanced back, hesitated, and then slowly took a few wobbly steps toward me. Her trust was delicate — fragile like a soap bubble.
She tilted her head, watching the water ripple. Her little hand reached forward, then quickly pulled back. Her eyes darted to me, full of both curiosity and fear. It was as if she wanted to believe me… but a part of her still remembered that terrifying first experience.
Her mother, sitting nearby, made a soft cooing sound — a reassurance only a mother could give. Cici glanced back, hesitated, and then slowly took a few wobbly steps toward me. Her trust was delicate — fragile like a soap bubble.
I dipped my hand into the warm water and let it drip gently onto my palm. “See? It’s nice and warm,” I said softly, smiling. Then I placed my wet hand on her tiny arm. She flinched but didn’t pull away. That was progress — small but meaningful.
Encouraged, I poured a little water onto her back. The first splash made her squeak and cling to my wrist, her eyes wide and full of alarm. My heart ached to see her scared, but I continued gently, speaking to her the whole time. “It’s okay, baby. You’re safe. I promise.”
Gradually, her breathing slowed. The fear in her eyes softened into something more like uncertainty — she wasn’t enjoying it yet, but she was trying to understand. She looked up at me, her fur wet and clumped together, and her gaze seemed to ask, “Can I really trust you this time?”
I nodded as if I could hear her thoughts. “Yes, you can, my brave girl.”
A tiny moment of calm passed between us. Then, when I reached for the small cup to rinse her back, she suddenly panicked again. Her little hands clutched at my shirt; she whimpered, shaking her head as if to say, “No, please, not that!”
Her reaction broke my heart. She wasn’t being stubborn — she was afraid. Afraid that something she didn’t understand might hurt her again.
So instead of forcing her, I stopped. I put down the cup, sat cross-legged beside the basin, and let her crawl onto my knee. The water could wait. Her trust was more important.
Cici pressed her wet body against me, trembling slightly. I gently rubbed her back, whispering to her. “You’re okay, my little one. You’re safe with me.”
After a few minutes, she peeked over the edge of the basin again. The water shimmered softly in the sunlight, and this time, she reached out and dipped her hand into it on her own. Her tiny fingers swirled the surface, splashing just a little. Then she looked at me and made a soft chittering sound — a little monkey giggle.
I smiled. “That’s right, Cici. See? It’s not scary when you go slow.”
Bit by bit, we tried again. I let her play with the bubbles, showing her how they floated on her fur before popping. The sound made her curious. She leaned forward, poking them and watching them vanish, her earlier fear melting away into fascination.
Soon, her mother joined us. She came closer and dipped her hands into the water too, splashing Cici gently. Cici squealed, startled at first — then, after a pause, she let out a small chirping laugh. It was the most beautiful sound I’d heard all day.
That laugh was a sign. It meant she was learning — learning that trust grows slowly, like the way sunlight returns after a storm.
By the time we were
