The air was thick with the scent of rain-damp leaves when it happened. I had just arrived at the forest edge near Angkor Wat, hoping to catch a glimpse of the troop of monkeys that often plays along the low tree line. I’d been watching them for weeks—especially one young mother I’d quietly named “Lina.” Her baby, barely a few weeks old, was always curled into her chest like a tiny heartbeat.
That day, Lina seemed restless. She kept leaping between branches, her focus split between foraging and keeping up with the more dominant females who were moving higher into the canopy. Her baby clung tightly as usual—but then, something changed.
I’ll never forget the sound.
A sudden crack. A rustle. Then silence. Then the cry.
The baby had fallen.
I don’t know if it was because Lina misjudged the distance, or if the branch gave out, or maybe—just maybe—her foot slipped when she twisted mid-jump. But there, on the forest floor, lay the tiny body of her baby, unmoving at first.
Lina was frozen. She stared down for what felt like forever. Then panic took over.
She dropped from the branches like a stone, her limbs shaking, her voice wild with calls no human could fully understand—but I could feel it: pure maternal terror.
The baby twitched. That movement alone brought my hands to my mouth in prayer. Lina rushed over, scooping her child up, rocking him like a human mother would, checking every inch. The baby cried—softly, brokenly. Not in pain, maybe, but confusion. Shock.
Other monkeys circled. Some looked concerned. Others kept their distance. The forest hushed, like even the birds held their breath.
I crouched behind the brush, heart racing. I wanted to help, but I knew better. This was their world. This was a moment between mother and child—between guilt and hope.
Lina held her baby for over twenty minutes, gently grooming him, holding his tiny hand to her face, whispering things I’ll never understand but will never forget.
Eventually, they moved together—slowly, carefully—back toward the group. The baby didn’t climb this time. Lina carried him. Every step was cautious, deliberate. A mother who had almost lost everything. A baby who now knew how hard the world could be.
It’s strange how deeply a moment like that can reach into your chest and stay there.
I’ve seen Lina and her baby several times since that day. He’s stronger now, and she—well, she never lets him out of her grasp.
Sometimes, love is born in peace. Sometimes, it’s carved out of sheer survival.
And sometimes, it’s a terrified cry beneath a tree in Angkor Wat that reminds us how fragile—and fierce—a mother’s heart can be.