In the early light of Angkor Wat, when the temple stones still hold the coolness of night, I noticed a tiny movement along the roots of an ancient fig tree.
It was a baby macaque — small enough to fit in one hand — clinging tightly to his mother’s fur.
He wasn’t playing like the others.
He wasn’t exploring.
He simply held on.
The forest was waking up slowly. Cicadas hummed. A warm golden glow filtered through the canopy. Nearby, older juveniles chased each other across fallen branches. But this little one kept his cheek pressed against his mother’s chest, eyes half-open, as if unsure about the day ahead.
His mother moved carefully across the stone walkway, pausing to groom another female. Even then, he didn’t loosen his grip. One tiny hand rested against her shoulder. The other curled into her fur.
There was something deeply familiar about it.
In that quiet moment, he reminded me of every child who has ever needed reassurance before stepping into something new. That silent request for comfort. That wordless “stay with me.”
The mother seemed to understand. She adjusted her posture slightly so he could balance better. She didn’t rush him. She didn’t push him away.
She simply let him hold on.
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As the sun rose higher, the troop began moving toward the forest edge. The baby finally lifted his head. He looked toward the trees, blinking at the brightness. Slowly — almost bravely — he loosened one hand.
Then another.
Not to leave her.
Just to look.
That small shift felt like a milestone.
In the Angkor forest, life moves forward gently but steadily. Every baby learns when to cling and when to explore. And every mother seems to know that letting go doesn’t happen all at once.
Sometimes love is simply allowing someone to hold on a little longer.