In the heart of a quiet jungle, where the trees whispered secrets and birds sang lullabies, lived a mother monkey named Luma. She was clever, quick, and fiercely protective of her baby, whom she called Miko. Miko was small, with big curious eyes and a fluffy tail that always got tangled in vines.
One sunny morning, as the golden light streamed through the leaves, Luma and Miko climbed to the top of an old fig tree. Luma was showing Miko how to swing from branch to branch, how to judge the distance, and how to hold on tight. Miko was excited but still clumsy—his little hands didn’t grip as well as his mother’s.
“Hold on tight, Miko!” Luma called.
But in her eagerness to teach him, Luma swung too fast, grabbing Miko by the arm and pulling him across to the next branch. She didn’t mean to hurt him, but Miko squeaked in pain. His tiny arm twisted awkwardly, and he tumbled down a few branches, landing on a soft patch of moss. He whimpered, holding his arm.
Luma was down in an instant, cradling him close. Panic filled her chest. She had never hurt him before—never imagined she could. She checked his arm gently and realized it was just a sprain, but Miko was frightened, and so was she.
Tears welled in Luma’s eyes. “I’m sorry, my baby,” she whispered, holding him close against her fur. “Mama didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Miko sniffled but nestled into her arms. He knew she didn’t mean it. His little hand reached up and touched her cheek, forgiving her in a way only a child can.
From that day on, Luma moved slower, more carefully. She taught with patience, not pressure, and Miko soon learned to swing confidently through the trees. But Luma never forgot that moment—how easy it was to hurt the one she loved most without meaning to, and how forgiveness could still bloom in the gentlest of touches.
