The morning light filtered gently through the ancient trees of Angkor Wat, casting long golden shadows across the stone pathway. I had been watching the troop for over an hour when something small—but deeply human—unfolded before me.
Jane, a young mother with tired eyes, sat apart from the others. Her fur looked slightly unkempt, and her movements were slower than usual. Clinging tightly to her belly was her tiny baby, still nursing, still depending entirely on her.
Food had been scarce that morning.
Bridget, another adult female in the troop, had managed to gather a small bundle of fruit scraps near the temple wall. She guarded it carefully, glancing around between bites. In the wild, even among family, survival comes first.
Jane watched.
Not aggressively. Not with anger. But with quiet desperation.
Her baby shifted against her chest, searching for milk. Jane adjusted her posture, trying to soothe the little one. But it was clear—she hadn’t eaten enough. A nursing mother’s body cannot give what it does not have.
And then, in one quick, almost hesitant motion, Jane moved closer.
There was no loud confrontation. No dramatic chaos. Just a brief moment where instinct overcame pride. Jane reached and took a small piece of fruit from Bridget’s pile.
Bridget reacted immediately, pulling the rest closer to her body. There was tension for a few seconds—stiff shoulders, direct eye contact—but no violent escalation. Jane backed away with what she managed to take.
She didn’t celebrate. She didn’t run.
She simply sat down a few feet away and began to eat, slowly, carefully—glancing at her baby between bites.
Watching this moment felt deeply familiar in a way that had nothing to do with monkeys.
Across America—and across the world—mothers face quiet battles every day. Skipping meals so children can eat. Stretching what little they have. Carrying the invisible weight of responsibility.
Jane wasn’t stealing out of greed.
She was surviving.
She was feeding herself so she could feed her child.
A few minutes later, something subtle but meaningful happened. Bridget relaxed. The tension faded. The troop shifted back into its rhythm. Jane’s baby continued nursing, calmer now.
The forest returned to its gentle hum.
Life in Angkor Wat is not always peaceful or picturesque. It is raw. Honest. Sometimes uncomfortable. But it is real. And in that reality, we see reflections of ourselves.
Motherhood, whether in Cambodia or California, carries the same quiet strength.
Jane finished the last bite and pulled her baby closer.
The morning moved on.