After several days away for work, Dad finally returned home. The house was filled with excitement—Monkey Mit ran in circles, and little Diem clapped her hands. But Monkey Kaka… she didn’t rush or squeal. She just stood quietly at the corner, her eyes wide, her little hands holding onto her toy.
When Dad opened his arms, Kaka slowly walked forward—no words, no sound—just gentle steps. Then, she climbed into his lap, curled up against his chest, and let out a long, soft sigh.
Everyone around them fell silent. It was clear: Kaka had missed him more than words—or squeaks—could say.
She nuzzled into his shoulder, her tiny hands gripping his shirt as if afraid he might leave again. Dad wrapped his arms around her and held her close, gently rocking side to side. His eyes softened, and he whispered, “I missed you too, my sweet girl.”
There were no toys, no games—just quiet comfort and a love that didn’t need explanation. Kaka blinked slowly, her breathing calm and steady, feeling safe again in the arms she trusted most.
She stayed there for a long time, her tail gently curled, her heart full.
Dad didn’t rush it.
Because sometimes, what matters most isn’t how long you were gone—it’s how tightly you hold the ones who waited.
And for Kaka, lying in her father’s arms was more than comfort. It was home.
