The morning light filtered gently through the towering trees of Angkor Wat, spilling golden threads of sunlight over the mossy stones and whispering leaves. The forest, usually alive with the playful chatter of monkeys, was strangely quiet that day—except for one tiny voice.
That voice belonged to Baby Jada.
Still so small that her fur looked like soft brown velvet, Jada sat near an old tree root, her little hands trembling as she reached out toward her mother. Her eyes—so big and full of longing—were glistening with tears.
Her mother, Mira, had been distant lately. The group had moved to a new part of the forest where food was scarce, and Mira had grown tired, guarding what little fruit she could find. Jada didn’t understand why her mother turned away. All she knew was that she needed warmth—just a gentle touch, a little care, the kind she remembered from her earliest days clinging to Mira’s belly.
When Mira refused her, Jada let out a soft, heartbreaking cry. It wasn’t loud or angry—just the sound of quiet pain, the kind that sinks deep into the heart.
I watched from a few feet away, trying not to move or make a sound. I’d seen many baby monkeys cry before—but something about Jada was different. Her tiny fingers rubbed her eyes, and her body shook as she whimpered, looking around for anyone—any friend—who might hold her close.
That’s when Luna, an older female in the troop, approached.
Luna wasn’t Jada’s mother, but she was known to care for other babies when their mothers were too busy. She crouched low, letting Jada crawl into her arms. The moment Jada felt that warmth, her crying stopped. She pressed her face into Luna’s chest, breathing softly, as though she had finally found the comfort she’d been begging for.
It was one of those small, silent miracles that happen in nature—where compassion crosses all boundaries, even between unrelated souls.
The rest of the troop watched quietly. Some of the mothers kept grooming their babies, while others simply sat, their tails curling in the dust. But in that moment, everyone seemed to understand something important: even the smallest heart deserves love.
Later, as the sun began to set, Mira returned. She approached slowly, her face calmer now, her eyes softer. Perhaps she had seen what Luna had done. Perhaps she had remembered what it meant to be a mother.
Jada looked up at her, uncertain at first—but when Mira reached out and pulled her baby close again, the world seemed to sigh in relief.
The forest filled once more with the sounds of life—chirping birds, rustling leaves, and Jada’s gentle squeaks of happiness as she clung tightly to her mother’s fur.
I stayed there for a long time, watching the two of them beneath the fading light. It reminded me that even in the wild, love isn’t perfect. It falters, it drifts, but it always finds its way back—just like the sun finding the forest floor through the clouds.
That day, I learned something from a baby monkey named Jada.
Love doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it simply waits in silence, hoping to be found again.
