The morning light crept softly through the towering trees, scattering golden beams across the moss-covered stones of Angkor Wat. The forest was alive with sound—the chatter of unseen birds, the hum of cicadas, the soft rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze. My daughter, little Srey, clutched my hand as we made our way through the uneven roots leading to the temple clearing. Her small steps faltered, but her eyes—wide with wonder—never left the horizon.
I carried her for a while when her legs grew tired, her tiny arms wrapped around my neck. She leaned in close, her cheek resting on my shoulder. That’s when she whispered something that froze me in place:
“Papa… why like this?”
Her voice was soft, but her words pierced me like thunder echoing in the forest. She didn’t mean the path, or the early walk, or the heat. Her question was heavier, deeper. And I, her father, suddenly realized I wasn’t ready to answer.
The Weight of a Simple Question
We had come to Angkor Wat at dawn hoping to find something—peace, beauty, maybe a little hope. Life in the village had been hard lately. Drought left our fields dry. Food was scarce, and each day was a reminder of how fragile survival can be.
Srey, only six years old, had already seen too much. She noticed my worry even when I tried to hide it. Children sense these things. And now, beneath the ancient temple towers, she gave voice to the question I had been asking myself silently for weeks: Why is life so hard? Why like this?
I swallowed hard, wishing I had an easy answer.
The Father’s Burden
We sat down on a large stone step, the temple’s carvings rising behind us. I pulled her into my lap, brushing dirt from her knees. She leaned her head against me, her small frame trembling just enough for me to feel it.
As a father, you want to protect. You want to be the shield that keeps hardship from touching your child. But the truth is, sometimes life presses in harder than your arms can hold back. And when your child looks up at you—eyes searching, heart open—you’re left with only your honesty and your love.
I thought about my own father, who had carried me on his shoulders through times of hunger and loss. He had never given me long explanations—just strong arms and quiet reassurance. Maybe that was enough then. Maybe it could be enough now.
The Answer in the Sunrise
I lifted Srey’s chin so her eyes could meet mine. The first rays of sun spilled over the temple spires, painting the sky with fire and hope.
“Life is not always easy, my little one,” I whispered. “Sometimes it feels heavy. Sometimes it feels unfair. But you are not alone. We walk together. We face each day together. And one day, when you are bigger, you will see how strong you already are.”
She didn’t reply right away. Instead, she buried her face into my chest and held onto me with all her strength. That silence, that embrace—it was her way of saying she understood enough for now.
The forest seemed to respond. The cicadas swelled louder, a bird darted through the canopy, and the breeze carried the smell of damp earth and blooming flowers. Nature itself was whispering reassurance, as if to remind us that even after the longest nights, the sun always rises.
A Universal Moment
As I held my daughter, I realized this wasn’t just our story. Parents everywhere—whether in Cambodia, America, or anywhere else—face these questions. A child looks up and asks “Why?” and in that moment, you wish you could promise them a world without pain, without hardship. But what you can promise is presence. You can promise to walk beside them, to share the burden, to give them love when answers fall short.
That morning at Angkor Wat, I didn’t solve every problem. The drought remained, the struggles continued. But I gave Srey what I could: my arms, my words, my heart.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
Reflection for Readers
If you’ve ever held a child in your arms and heard them ask a question that cut straight to your soul, you know what I felt. It is the rawest, most human moment—a reminder that love is both fragile and powerful.
Life doesn’t always provide the answers we want. But love gives us strength to keep walking, even when the path is hard. That morning, my daughter’s question became my promise: to keep carrying her, to keep showing up, to keep choosing hope in the shadow of ancient stones.
And as the sun rose fully above Angkor Wat, I knew—whatever came next—we would face it together.