In the quiet corner of a dense forest, little Lori sat on a mossy rock, her tiny body trembling and eyes full of sadness. She was the smallest of her siblings, often forgotten and left behind during play or mealtime. But today felt especially hard.
Her stomach grumbled softly. She hadn’t eaten much since morning, and her tiny legs ached from wandering after her mother, who always seemed too busy or too tired to notice her.
“Mommy…” Lori whispered, slowly approaching the tree where her mother rested. “Can I… can I have a hug?”
Her voice was barely a whisper, almost lost in the wind. Her mother glanced over, distracted and weary from caring for the other more demanding babies. She gave Lori a tired look but didn’t respond.
Lori stood still, her arms open, her face full of longing. Her little hands trembled. She blinked back tears, hoping—just this once—that her mother might pull her close.
“Please, Mommy,” she pleaded again, her voice breaking. “Just one hug…”
But the forest remained quiet. A leaf fluttered down from above and landed on Lori’s head. She didn’t move. Her heart ached more than her empty belly. She slowly curled up beside the tree roots, hugging herself tightly.
She didn’t want toys. She didn’t want fruit. All she wanted was to feel her mother’s warm arms around her, just for a moment—to feel safe and loved.
As night began to fall, Lori closed her eyes, whispering softly, “Maybe tomorrow…”
And under the dim light of the moon, the poorest little monkey lay asleep, wrapped only in her hope for a mother’s hug.
