The jungle of Angkor Wat had been calm that morning. Mist still hugged the roots of the ancient trees, and a soft golden light filtered through the leaves as little Lily, just weeks old, bounded gently after her mama, Libby.
I had been observing them for weeks—Lily’s first clumsy hops, her wide-eyed curiosity, and the sweet way she always looked back to check if her brother Leo or her little friend Rainbow were nearby. She had such a bright soul, always eager, always innocent.
But that morning changed everything.
Lily was just playing beneath a fig tree, squealing with joy as Rainbow tried to mimic her moves. Leo tagged along, always the more cautious one. Libby sat nearby, grooming herself, eyes never too far from her babies. Then, suddenly… Lily stumbled. She froze. And within moments—collapsed.
I can’t describe the sound she made. It wasn’t a scream. It was more like a soft, broken whimper. I rushed closer with my camera still in hand, not thinking, only moving. Libby had already sprinted to her baby, cradling her like a human mother would.
“She’s burning up,” I whispered to myself. Her body was trembling. Something wasn’t right.
Leo stood to the side, looking confused and scared. Rainbow leaned in, touched Lily’s hand, and then backed away as if understanding something was deeply wrong.
Libby cried out. A sound that echoed through the jungle. A call for help, for anyone, for anything. I had never heard such raw pain in a monkey’s voice. My heart shattered.
Was it the heat? Was it something she ate?
There were no visible wounds. No snake bites. No signs of trauma. But Lily was fading—right in her mother’s arms.
I knelt beside them, tears in my eyes. I don’t know if Libby understood what I was trying to do. I just wanted her to know I was there. That she wasn’t alone.
She looked up at me. Our eyes met. In that one glance, I saw everything—a mother’s desperation, a cry for a miracle.
I watched as Libby gently licked Lily’s face, trying to cool her down. She brought her close to her chest, whispering in low, broken chirps. Leo couldn’t bear it anymore—he curled up against Libby and Lily, holding his sister’s tiny foot.
The minutes passed like hours. I could hear my heartbeat louder than the jungle. A butterfly landed on Lily’s back. The jungle had fallen silent. No rustle, no calls. As if every creature was waiting for what would come next.
And then… Lily stirred.
Her eyes fluttered. Her little fingers clenched around her mama’s fur.
She wasn’t gone.
It was as if the jungle breathed again. Libby cried again—but this time, in relief. Leo leapt up. Rainbow clapped his hands excitedly. Even I sobbed openly. This baby had fought through something no one could see—and she was still here.
I stayed the rest of the day. Watching Libby refuse to set Lily down, even once. She held her, fed her, groomed her. And Lily? She rested her head against her mother and just… breathed.
We don’t always know what these tiny lives go through. The jungle is harsh. Sometimes the pain is invisible. But what I witnessed that day will stay with me forever.
Lily taught me something.
Even the smallest lives carry incredible strength. And love—especially a mother’s love—can sometimes be the difference between life and death.
I still check in on them every morning. And every time I see Lily open her eyes, or reach out to play again, I say a quiet thank you to the jungle.
And to whatever power answered Libby’s cry.