Jade’s baby, a tiny, trembling creature only a few weeks old, clung close to her belly as she guided it carefully along the forest’s worn paths. The little one had never known danger, never understood the meaning of fear. It only knew the warmth of its mother and the rhythm of her heartbeat—steady, comforting, and always near.
But the forest was not always kind.
High in the branches above them, a troop of monkeys watched the pair with a bold curiosity that often crossed into mischief. Monkeys in this part of the forest had long learned to take advantage of weaker animals—snatching food, pulling fur, or even harassing young ones for the thrill of it. And when the leader of the troop, an aggressive male with greedy eyes, spotted Jade’s newborn, he felt a surge of boldness.
He leapt from branch to branch, inching his way lower until he was close enough to reach the ground. Jade sensed a disturbance—her ears twitched, her tail flicked, and she paused mid-step. The baby pressed tighter against her, unaware of the shadow creeping closer.
The monkey leader landed with a thud behind them.
Jade turned sharply, lowering her head and stretching her frail body protectively over her baby. Her breath grew heavy, and fear mixed with determination in her weary eyes. She knew she could no longer fight the way she once had. She could no longer outrun danger. But she could stand. She could block. She could do what every mother does—whatever it takes.
The monkey screeched, circling her with darting movements. He lunged once, testing her reaction. Jade snapped her jaw, forcing him back. But he was young, quick, and cunning. She was old, weak, and slowing.
Then, in a sudden burst, the monkey rushed forward and grabbed at the baby’s tiny arm.
A sharp cry echoed through the trees.
Jade swung her body with all the strength she had left, slamming her shoulder into the monkey before he could pull the baby away. He stumbled backward but did not retreat. Instead, he became more aggressive, frustrated by the resistance. He lunged again, this time grabbing hold of the baby’s fur and attempting to drag it across the ground.
The baby squealed loudly, scrambling helplessly.
Jade’s heart thundered. She shoved herself forward despite her pain, pushing her baby out of the monkey’s grip and shielding it with her own body. Her limbs trembled, her old injury flared, and her breath came in ragged bursts, but she refused to move aside.
In her youth, she would have chased the monkey out of the territory entirely. But now, she could only stand her ground—shaking, panting, but utterly unyielding.
The monkey tried once more to dart past her, but Jade lunged with everything she had, releasing a deep, cracked roar. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t powerful. But it was enough.
The monkey hesitated, intimidated by the sheer will radiating from the old jade. With an angry screech, he retreated back up the tree, vanishing into the branches with the rest of his troop.
Only when the forest grew quiet again did Jade collapse onto her knees. Her baby crawled beneath her chest, curling into the safest place it knew. Jade lowered her head, touching her baby gently with her nose as if counting its breaths, reassuring herself that it was still there—still alive.
And though she was old, fragile, and worn by time, in that moment Jade was the strongest creature in the world.
For no force—not even the wildness of the forest—was greater than a mother’s love.
