The forest of Angkor Wat awakens slowly each morning. A gentle mist hangs in the air, cloaking the ancient stones and the tree canopy in a sacred silence. The calls of macaques echo faintly across the jungle, signaling another day of survival, of family, and sometimes… of heartbreak.
It was on one of these mornings that I saw her—Mama Sori, as the locals called her.
She sat motionless on a moss-covered branch just a few feet above the forest floor, her fur bristling from the dew, her gaze blank and distant. At her feet, clinging desperately to her belly, was her baby—whom we had named Pree. Just weeks old, Pree was barely larger than a coconut, soft as silk, and full of life. He squeaked hungrily, mouth searching instinctively for comfort, for milk—for the warmth only a mother could give.
But Mama Sori didn’t respond.
Instead, she pushed him away.
We all gasped. It wasn’t rough or violent—but firm, cold, final. Pree tumbled gently onto the damp leaves below, his little hands outstretched in confusion. He didn’t cry, not yet. He didn’t understand.
We watched in stunned silence.
What kind of mother would do that?
It’s a question that hits hard—especially for us humans, who often project our own maternal expectations onto animals. But sometimes, nature tells a different, harsher story. A mother’s love can still exist… even in refusal.
That day, I decided to stay close. To watch. To try and understand.
Mama Sori climbed down slowly, not to comfort, but to sit beside Pree. Her posture was stiff, her breathing rapid. Something was off. This wasn’t anger. It wasn’t rejection. It was something deeper.
I had seen her before, nursing Pree just days earlier, grooming him carefully, wrapping her tail around his tiny body like a blanket. She had once been gentle, patient—radiant, even. But now, her face was worn. Her eyes darted nervously with every sound, every movement. And her belly looked… sunken.
The local guide whispered something that chilled me.
“She’s starving.”
It made sense. Food had been scarce in recent days. Several troupes had clashed near the temple edges, disrupting foraging. The mothers were struggling. And when the body weakens, the mind follows. For monkeys, survival often means making an impossible choice.
Mama Sori had weaned her baby early. Not out of cruelty—but because she couldn’t give anymore.
It was nature’s brutal law: save the child by forcing him to fend sooner, or risk both of them dying.
Pree tried again later that afternoon—he clambered onto her back, nuzzling into her fur, licking at her shoulder. Sori didn’t push him this time. But she didn’t embrace him either. She just stared out into the trees, her tail twitching in silent agony.
And then… it happened.
A single tear. Or something like it. Her eyes glistened as the sun dipped behind the stone towers of Angkor Wat. She looked at Pree—not with anger, not even sadness, but with an ache that defies words. An ache only a mother could know.
That night, Pree curled up beneath her arm. And though she didn’t nurse him, she let him stay.
Somewhere between survival and sorrow, there was still love.
Closing Reflection:
I’ve seen many stories unfold in this forest. Some are loud, full of monkey shrieks and stolen fruit. Others—like this one—are quiet and unbearably human.
We often expect mothers to give endlessly. But sometimes, even in the animal world, a mother must break her own heart to protect her child. Sori’s choice was painful—but maybe it saved Pree. Maybe, in her silence, she was saying, “Live, even if I can’t help you now.”
We returned days later and saw Pree playing with another young monkey. He was thin, but stronger. And Mama Sori? She was watching—from a distance, still guarding, still loving… in her own, quiet way.
