It was just past sunrise in Angkor Wat. The golden mist hovered over the ancient stones, and the monkeys of the forest began their playful morning rituals. But not far from the temples, beneath a weather-worn fig tree, a different kind of moment unfolded—one that still haunts me today.
That’s when I saw baby Nilo.
He was barely old enough to walk on his own—his small hands trembled as they reached out, eyes darting wildly around the clearing. His soft, high-pitched cry cut through the jungle air.
“OH NO, MOMMY…COME ON!!”
That’s not exactly what he said, of course. But if you’d seen his face—wide with fear, lips trembling—you would’ve heard it too. The raw emotion in his voice told me everything: Nilo had been left behind.
His mother, distracted by an aggressive male monkey nearby, had darted away in panic, likely thinking Nilo was still clinging to her fur. But he had slipped. He was too young, too small. Now he sat alone.
I crouched behind a tree, watching, helpless. I’d seen the forest give and take so much. But there was something about this baby—his eyes brimming with such pure desperation—it made my chest ache.
He ran toward the sound of rustling leaves—maybe thinking it was her. “Eek! Eek!” he cried. But it was another group of monkeys. One elder female hissed at him, pushing him away. He tumbled back on the dirt, barely catching himself with shaky arms. He looked stunned. He blinked.
Then he cried out again, louder this time.
“OH NO, MOMMY…COME ON!!”
That cry was a lifeline—a thread of hope stretching across the jungle. And finally… something answered.
From beyond the slope, I saw her. Nilo’s mother, Mira, sprinted back toward the cries. Her eyes were frantic, searching, terrified. She’d realized her baby wasn’t with her.
Nilo heard her before he saw her. His cries broke into little gasps of joy. He scrambled to his feet, fell again, but kept going—tripping over branches, covered in leaves and mud.
Then the moment came.
He flung himself at her.
And she caught him.
No hesitation. No scolding. Just a deep, primal embrace. Mira curled around him, pressing her face into his fur, nuzzling and licking him gently. Nilo clung to her chest like he would never let go again.
It was as if the entire forest held its breath.
I couldn’t help it—I wiped away tears.
In a world that can feel so harsh, witnessing this pure reunion between mother and child was something sacred. They stayed like that for several minutes—silent, still, wrapped in each other. Mira didn’t run again. She let Nilo rest on her chest, rocking gently, humming low vibrations only a mother could offer.
And for the rest of the morning, they stayed together. Wherever she went, Nilo held tight. He didn’t cry again.
That moment reminded me: love, especially a mother’s love, is stronger than fear.
Even in the wilds of Angkor, where danger hides behind every stone and tree, love still finds its way back.