The forest behind Angkor Wat was unusually still that morning.
Sunlight filtered softly through ancient stone towers, and the troop had gathered near the base of a towering fig tree. I noticed Vikki first — steady, alert, moving with the calm confidence of an experienced mother.
Her baby, still small enough to cling tightly to her side, had been unusually restless.
At first, it looked like any other day. But then Vikki did something subtle — she gently loosened her baby’s grip and stepped a short distance away.
The baby immediately protested.
Not in danger. Not abandoned. Just surprised.
The small cries echoed lightly through the trees, the kind of sound that reaches straight into your chest if you’ve ever been a parent. It reminded me of American toddlers on their first day of preschool — the moment a mother kneels down, gives one last hug, and stands up to walk toward the door.
There’s always a pause. A hesitation.
Vikki didn’t go far. She remained within sight, perched just above on a low branch, watching carefully.
The baby shifted, uncertain, then slowly placed tiny hands on the ground. For the first time that morning, it stood without holding onto her.
In the U.S., we often talk about independence as something we teach deliberately — encouraging our children to try, to explore, to build confidence. In the wild, that lesson unfolds naturally.
The baby’s cries softened as curiosity took over.
A few older juveniles approached cautiously. The baby glanced upward, confirming Vikki was still there.
She was.
And that seemed to be enough.
Within minutes, the forest’s rhythm resumed. The baby climbed a small root. Then another. Testing balance. Discovering its own strength.
Vikki eventually descended and allowed the baby to return, nestling against her side.
Watching it unfold felt surprisingly personal.
Letting go, even briefly, is one of the hardest acts of love.
But sometimes, stepping back is how growth begins.
