The little monkey, no more than a year old, curled up in a tight ball outside the wooden door, her small chest rising and falling with every gentle breath. The night had been cold, and the cement floor unforgiving, but Lyly didn’t stir once. She had waited for her mother, who had been locked inside the house by their human caretakers for the night, separated from her baby for reasons unknown to Lyly.
Lyly had pressed her ear to the door, hoping to hear her mother’s familiar coos or feel the warmth of her fur. But silence met her every time. With no other choice, she lay down, head resting against the bottom of the door, refusing to leave. Her tiny body trembled at first in the chilly breeze, but soon, exhaustion took over.
Inside, Lyly’s mother, Luma, could barely sleep. She heard every rustle and soft whimper from the other side of the door. Her instincts screamed to hold her baby close, to wrap her arms around Lyly and keep her warm. But the door was firm, and she was powerless. The humans meant no harm—they thought it was time to start weaning Lyly off constant contact. But they didn’t understand a mother’s bond.
Tears welled in Luma’s eyes. Every sound from her daughter pierced her heart. She reached for the door repeatedly through the night, hoping it would open just by her will. But morning came slowly, with no relief.
When the door finally opened at sunrise, Lyly stirred and blinked against the light. The moment she saw her mother, her eyes lit up. She jumped into Luma’s arms, clinging tightly, her small hands tangled in her mother’s fur. Luma held her just as tightly, her heart aching with both relief and sorrow.
To the caretakers, it was just one night of separation. To Lyly and Luma, it had been an eternity of longing.
