The late afternoon sun was slipping behind the ancient towers of Angkor Wat, spilling gold through the banyan trees that had wrapped their roots around the stones for centuries. The forest was alive with distant bird calls and the hum of cicadas, but in one quiet clearing, a sound far more urgent pierced the air — the trembling, high‑pitched cry of a newborn monkey.
I had seen Libby before. She was a gentle, dark‑eyed mother known in this part of the forest for her calm nature. But today, her face told a different story. Her fur was dusted with dirt, her movements slow and careful, and in her arms she held a tiny baby so new to the world that his fur still lay flat and silky against his pink skin.
The baby clung to her, but weakly — his small hands barely able to grip the warmth of his mother’s chest. Libby looked down at him with a mixture of love and worry, her eyes darting around as though searching for something… or someone.
The newborn’s cry rose again, echoing against the moss‑covered stones. It was a sound that didn’t belong to the ancient silence of the temple grounds — a plea that seemed to tug at the heart of anyone who heard it. I watched as Libby tried to nurse him, shifting her body to shield him from the open air. But something was wrong. He tried to latch on but pulled away, mewling in frustration.
In the wild, every second counts for a newborn. A baby that can’t feed is a baby whose strength will fade fast. Libby knew this. She adjusted her position again and again, gently nudging his tiny head toward her belly, whispering soft monkey sounds of encouragement. Still, his cries grew weaker.
Her gaze lifted to the canopy above, where the other members of her troop were moving among the branches. Some paused to look down at her, but none came closer. This was her battle to fight — and she was fighting it alone.
As I knelt behind the thick trunk of a fig tree, I could feel the weight of her solitude. It reminded me of the nights I had rocked my own child in the stillness, wondering if I was doing enough, if I could keep them safe in a world so big and uncertain.
The forest around us seemed to lean in — vines swaying in a sudden breeze, leaves whispering in soft applause for this mother’s courage. The ancient stones, carved with the faces of gods and warriors, seemed to watch with solemn patience.
Libby tried again, this time wrapping her long tail protectively around the baby’s body. He rested his head against her, quiet for a moment, but his eyes remained half‑closed, his breathing shallow. The urgency in Libby’s eyes was unmistakable. She needed help.
She moved toward a patch of sunlight filtering through the trees, sitting in its warmth as if hoping the light itself might give him strength. She groomed his fur in tiny strokes, keeping him clean and warm. At times, she looked out toward the open trail where human visitors sometimes passed. It was as if she was searching for someone who might understand — someone who might see her and know what to do.
I thought of the mothers I knew back home — women who posted in online groups at 3 a.m., asking if anyone had tips for feeding a baby who wouldn’t eat. The fear, the desperation, the longing for just one person to say, You’re not alone.
In that moment, the space between us — human and monkey, different worlds, different languages — seemed to disappear. What remained was the universal truth of motherhood: the need to protect, to nourish, to keep alive the tiny life entrusted to you.
The forest was growing dim now, the sun sinking lower. Libby shifted the baby once more, and for a brief, miraculous moment, he latched on. His small mouth worked, his body pressed firmly to hers. Libby froze, hardly daring to breathe, as if afraid any movement might break the connection.
I could see her shoulders relax just slightly. A mother’s relief is something you can feel, no matter the species. She closed her eyes for a moment, holding him close, her whole body curled protectively around him.
He didn’t feed for long, but it was enough to bring a flicker of hope to the evening. She began to hum softly, a sound low and constant, as if to tell him, I’m here. We’ll find a way.
As I walked away from the clearing, the image of Libby and her newborn stayed with me. In a world that often moves too fast to notice the quiet battles of motherhood, I wanted to remember this moment — a moment when the ancient forest bore witness to love, determination, and the desperate hope for help.
Somewhere in the heart of Angkor Wat, under roots older than any living memory, a mother still cradles her newborn. And every cry that rises into the air is not just a call for help — it is a reminder that we are all connected, bound by the same fragile thread of life.