The morning air around Angkor Wat was cool and quiet, wrapped in pale mist that softened the ancient stones. I was standing near a cluster of tall trees when the troop stirred above me. Leaves trembled. Small hands gripped bark.
At first, it seemed like any other morning.
The baby—still small enough to fit fully against his mother’s chest—was restless. He tugged at her fur, climbed across her shoulders, and squeaked in protest when she tried to reposition him. She had been alert for hours, scanning the forest floor and nearby branches. Something in her posture felt tense.
Then it happened.
In one swift motion, she pulled him away and pushed him outward. It looked rough—far rougher than we’re used to seeing. The little one lost balance and dropped onto a lower branch, scrambling awkwardly before catching himself.
For a second, everything froze.
The baby clung there, stunned. His tiny fingers wrapped tightly around bark as he let out soft cries—not loud, not dramatic, just confused. The kind of sound that feels small and vulnerable.
But his mother didn’t leave.
She moved closer along the branch, watching him carefully. Her body was steady, her gaze fixed. This wasn’t abandonment. It was correction—sharp, instinctive, and immediate.
Within moments, he climbed back toward her.
He hesitated before reaching out again. And this time, she allowed him to press against her side. Not quite the same closeness as before—but close enough to reassure him.
Watching it unfold felt complicated. From a human perspective, it looked harsh. But in the wild edges of the Angkor forest, lessons aren’t always gentle. Young monkeys must learn balance, distance, and awareness early. The forest demands it.
The baby stayed quieter after that. He clung more securely. His movements were more careful. And his mother? She groomed him briefly, running her fingers through his fur as if smoothing away the moment.
What stayed with me wasn’t the push.
It was what followed.
She never turned her back. She never moved far. Her eyes remained on him the entire time.
Parenting in the wild is layered—instinct mixed with urgency, protection mixed with pressure. It doesn’t always look soft, but it is rooted in survival and care.
As sunlight filtered through the trees and warmed the ancient stones, the pair settled into a quieter rhythm. The baby rested again, this time calmer, his breathing slow against her side.
Sometimes love in the wild looks different than we expect.
But it is still love.