It was just after dawn in the mossy heart of Angkor Wat. The mist still clung to the trees like a memory refusing to fade. I had come early, hoping to catch the first warm rays on the monkey families I’d been observing for weeks. What I witnessed instead broke me in ways I didn’t expect.
There, beside a puddle of rainwater left by the night’s storm, was a tiny baby monkey—no more than a few weeks old—struggling in the mud. His thin frame shook with every movement. His soft fur, once a gentle shade of chestnut, was caked in wet soil. But it wasn’t just the mud that clung to him—it was pain, confusion, and something even heavier.
His cries pierced the stillness.
He wasn’t just playing. He was being pushed—hard—by his own mother.
I stood frozen, camera in hand, barely able to raise it. The mother, normally calm and protective, lashed out at him again. A slap. A shove. Another tumble into the muck. The baby didn’t resist. He didn’t even cry out loudly anymore. Just small gasps—tiny, broken sobs as he curled into himself, trying to disappear beneath the mud.
I couldn’t help but whisper, “Why?”
Why would she do this? Was she angry? Tired? Or was something else wrong?
Then I noticed her eyes—red-rimmed and darting, as if she were searching for something, or someone. She paced in circles, grunted at the trees, and shook her head furiously. She was distressed—clearly. But instead of comforting her baby, she pushed him away. It was almost as if she blamed him.
I’ve seen monkey mothers reject their young before—when a baby is sick or weak, when food is scarce, or when their social bonds collapse under pressure from the group. But this? This was different.
I crouched behind a tree, my heart aching as I watched the baby try to sit up. His tiny hands clutched the mud like it could hold him upright. He looked at her again. Not in fear. In hope.
Hope that she would reach for him, clean his face, pull him into her chest and let him feel her heartbeat again.
But she didn’t.
She turned away.
And for a long moment, he just sat there—quiet and shivering, mud dripping from his cheeks, his eyes locked on the one creature he trusted the most. The one who no longer wanted him.
Suddenly, an older female from the group approached. I recognized her—an aunt or older sister, maybe. She chattered gently, sat beside the little one, and began grooming his filthy fur. He closed his eyes, leaning into her, and for the first time that morning, he looked like a baby again—not a rejected ghost in the jungle.
As she groomed, I could see small bruises on his side, likely from the earlier beatings. But he didn’t flinch. He was just grateful. Desperate for any touch that didn’t hurt.
What happened next was unexpected.
The mother watched from a distance. Her fists clenched. Her body stiff. Then—slowly—she approached.
I held my breath.
She didn’t attack this time. She sat. Just sat. Close, but not touching.
And then she grunted—a low, uncertain sound.
The baby looked up. Confused.
He stepped toward her.
She didn’t move.
And finally, after what felt like an eternity, she reached out—not to slap—but to sniff. Then to nuzzle. And then… she pulled him into her arms.
I could see him melt into her warmth, his little arms wrapping tight around her chest.
The mud didn’t matter.
The bruises didn’t matter.
He was hers again.