The first time I noticed her, she was sitting on the edge of the path, no bigger than a loaf of bread, with wide eyes that followed every step I took. I thought she was just curious, the way young animals often are. But when I moved away, she stood up on her tiny legs, let out a soft call, and hurried after me. That was when my heart tightened. She wasn’t just watching me. She was looking for me.
Her name became Lila, though she didn’t know it yet. She was a baby monkey—small, fuzzy, and unsure of the world. Each morning when I arrived, she would scan the area, turning her head left and right, until our eyes met. The moment she saw me, her face lit up with a kind of relief that felt far too big for such a little body. She would scamper closer, stopping just short, as if checking that I was real. Then she’d settle near my feet, peeking up at me, calm at last.
I learned quickly that Lila had been separated from her mother. No one knew exactly how it happened. Animals don’t explain their stories in words; they show them in behavior. And Lila’s behavior told me everything. She clung to warmth. She cried when left alone. She searched faces, especially mine, with a hope that broke my heart. It was the kind of hope that said, Please don’t disappear.
At first, I tried to keep my distance. I knew it was important not to confuse her or replace what she had lost. But Lila didn’t understand rules or boundaries. She understood comfort. When she was tired, she curled up near me. When she was scared by a sudden sound, she rushed to my side. And when I walked away, she followed, calling softly, like a question carried on the air.
Every day, it was the same. I would leave to do my work, and when I returned, she would be there—waiting. Sometimes she sat quietly, hugging her knees. Other times she paced, stopping to look down the path again and again. It was as if she believed that if she watched closely enough, I would always come back. And when I did, her little body relaxed, her eyes softened, and she moved closer, as if my presence stitched the world back together.
One afternoon, I noticed her doing something that made my chest ache. She was grooming my sleeve the way monkeys groom their mothers—carefully, gently, with total focus. She picked at imaginary specks, smoothing the fabric with tiny fingers. It wasn’t play. It was instinct. It was love shaped by loss. In that moment, I realized she wasn’t just attached to me. She saw me as safety. She saw me as home.
I began to understand that for Lila, motherhood wasn’t a face or a body—it was a feeling. Warmth. Reliability. The promise that someone would be there when she looked up. She kept looking for me because, in her heart, I had become the answer to her fear of being alone.
Still, I worried. I worried about what would happen when I wasn’t around. I worried about whether this bond was fair to her. So I started encouraging her independence in small, gentle ways. I showed her where to find food. I sat nearby while she explored, cheering her on with quiet praise. I made sure other monkeys were close, giving her chances to connect, to belong in her own world again.
Lila learned quickly, but she never stopped checking for me. Even when she played, she would pause, glance over, and make sure I was still there. It was like a child looking back at a parent in a crowded place—just one look to feel brave again.
Over time, something beautiful happened. Lila grew stronger. She laughed in her own way, chattering happily as she climbed and jumped. She made friends. She followed older monkeys and copied their movements. And yet, no matter how busy she was, if she heard my footsteps, she turned instantly, eyes shining. That look never changed.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the world in gold, Lila climbed up beside me and leaned against my arm. She didn’t cling. She didn’t cry. She just rested there, peaceful. In that quiet moment, I understood that love doesn’t always mean holding on tightly. Sometimes it means being the place someone returns to—until they’re ready to go on their own.
Lila still looks for me. She always will, I think. Not because she needs me the way she once did, but because our bond was built in a time when she needed someone most. I didn’t give her life. I didn’t replace her mother. But I gave her consistency, kindness, and a reason to trust the world again.
And maybe that’s what being a mom really is—human or monkey. Not perfection. Not ownership. Just showing up. Again and again. Until a scared little heart learns how to beat without fear.
Every time Lila looks for me, I’m reminded of how powerful love can be, even across species. She may never say it in words, but her eyes tell the story clearly:
You came back. You’re here. I’m okay. 💞🐒
