I still remember the soft golden glow of dawn filtering through the ancient stones of Angkor Wat’s hidden forest when I first saw Baby Bean, all wobbly hands and yearning eyes, trying so hard to follow his mom. She was weary—her shoulders slumped, her breaths slow and ragged, as though she’d pulled the weight of the entire jungle on her arms. Yet, despite exhaustion that seemed as old as the temple stones, she kept going, quietly protective.
I was crouched among tangled roots and mossy ruins, heart pounding—not from fear, but from empathy. Baby Bean reached up, his tiny fingers brushing his mother’s fur, watching her with eyes wide and vulnerable. His world wasn’t yet stabilized; he hadn’t learned to walk solo, to forage, or to understand dangers. All he knew was that his mama was the center of his universe.
She paused beneath a soaring, vine-wrapped archway—ancient and heavy with time—eyes dim yet tender. Bean lurched forward, babbling in his soft monkey voice, longing to stay close, but his mama, with monumental effort, lifted a hand and drew him gently toward her. She couldn’t slow down—not completely—not in a place where every shadow in the forest carries hidden threats. Yet with each labored step, she gave her child enough grace to keep trying.
In that stillness, time seemed to warp. The cicadas’ song blended with distant chants spilling from the temple’s stones, weaving a soundtrack of sacred nature. I could almost hear the forest urging Bean’s mother to pause, to rest—and the baby, instinctively knowing urgency, clinging tighter.
Somewhere deep inside me, tears got caught. I wasn’t just watching a monkey mother and child—I was witnessing devotion in its purest form, stripped of human constructs. Love illuminated her fatigue, and fear illuminated his determination.
Finally, she reached a sun-dappled ledge, where morning light painted the moss in emeralds. There, she leaned against ancient rock, closing her eyes for just a breath. Bean perched on her lap, his tiny chest rising and falling against her. She cradled him with a mother’s instinct that transcends species. I imagined her mind bead-by-bead forming silent promises: “I’m here. You’re safe. We’ll keep going.”
My heart is still tied to that moment. It wasn’t perfectly happy. It wasn’t a fairy tale. It was something more real—tender, fragile, relentless. From the crumbling stones surrounding us, from the fermented scent of leaf-lit air, that forest spoke to us all: that love often asks us to stand—though weary—in the face of darkness, for those we carry.