I never expected my peaceful walk through Angkor Wat’s lush canopy that morning to end in heartbreak. I’ve wandered these ancient temple grounds dozens of times, but that day—July’s golden sunrise filtering through the jungle vines—I witnessed a story that I’ll never forget.
There she was. A young monkey mother I’d seen before, perched in a towering fig tree near the east gallery. Locals call her Srey, meaning “girl” in Khmer. She’s young—barely old enough to be a mother—but fiercely protective of her tiny newborn, whom she keeps tucked into her chest like a sacred secret.
That morning, Srey was more restless than usual. She hopped from branch to branch, seemingly agitated by the buzz of a drone nearby. The buzzing grew louder, distracting the monkeys in the troop. Srey made a risky leap, trying to shield her baby as she climbed higher. That’s when it happened.
I watched, helpless, as her footing slipped on the mossy bark. Her grip loosened—just for a second. But that second was all it took.
The baby—still pink-skinned and barely able to cling—slid from her arms.
Time stopped. I remember gasping out loud. The forest fell silent except for the soft rustle of leaves and the sickening thud of a tiny body hitting the underbrush below.
Srey froze. Her eyes widened. Then, like lightning, she scrambled down the trunk with a scream so raw it cut through the air. She reached the ground and scooped up her motionless baby, cradling it to her chest, rocking back and forth like a grieving mother.
I could hardly breathe.
From behind a tree, I watched, tears burning in my eyes. Other monkeys gathered around her but kept a respectful distance, sensing the gravity of what had just happened. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
Then… the baby stirred.
It was subtle—a twitch of a tiny arm, a flick of a tail. Srey noticed first and let out a whimper, then a soft cooing sound. She began grooming the baby frantically, nuzzling her, whispering the way only a mother could.
I crouched lower in the underbrush, not wanting to disturb the moment. My heart, once shattered, began to mend.
The baby was alive. Bruised, shaken, but alive.
Srey didn’t move for over an hour. She sat under the tree, shielding her baby with both arms, swaying gently. She didn’t eat. She didn’t respond to the others. She just… held her. I watched until the sun began to dip behind the temple spires, turning the sky a shade of gold I’d never seen before.
Even now, as I write this, I can still see them—mother and baby—blending into the forest, stitched together by the strength of love, by forgiveness, by the sheer will to protect.
This moment changed something in me. We all slip. We all make mistakes. But it’s the reaching back, the desperate second chance, that defines us.
Srey didn’t just hold her baby that day.
She held every single one of us who’s ever failed and prayed for grace.
