The morning air in the Angkor Wat forest felt heavy with humidity, the kind that settles softly on your skin before the sun fully rises. I was sitting quietly beneath the ancient stone corridor when I noticed Libby and her baby, Lily, resting near a moss-covered root.
Lily is still very small — her fur pale and soft, her movements unsure but curious. She clings to her mother constantly, as most babies here do. But that morning, something different unfolded.
Lily reached insistently for milk. Libby shifted away.
At first, it looked like simple repositioning. But Lily tried again — more urgently this time. A tiny cry escaped her. It wasn’t loud, but it carried that fragile tremble babies have when they don’t understand why comfort has suddenly changed.
Libby turned and gently pushed her away.
Not harshly. Not aggressively. Just firmly.
Lily’s little face tightened, and she let out a cry that echoed softly through the trees. For a moment, my heart pulled in two directions — sympathy for the baby, and respect for the mother.
In the wild forests of Angkor, motherhood is not only tenderness. It is preparation.
Libby watched Lily carefully. There was no anger in her eyes — only calm awareness. She allowed Lily to fuss for a few seconds before drawing her close again, grooming her head with slow, deliberate strokes.
The lesson wasn’t punishment.
It was timing.
Lily eventually settled, pressing her small body against Libby’s chest, no longer crying — just breathing. The forest resumed its rhythm around them: distant birds, rustling leaves, sunlight filtering through temple stone.
Watching them, I realized something deeply human. Every mother, whether in Cambodia or the United States, carries this same balance — love and boundaries intertwined.
Sometimes the hardest lessons are wrapped in care.
And Lily, still so young, is beginning to understand the rhythm of independence.