The morning air at Angkor Wat was soft and calm, the kind that usually brings peace to both people and wildlife. But today, something felt different. The wind seemed restless. The birds were quieter. Even the ancient trees appeared to lean in — as if they were waiting for something to happen.
And then…
it came.
A cry — thin, sharp, and heartbreaking — cut through the silence. It wasn’t the sound of danger. It wasn’t the call of a predator.
It was the sound of a hungry baby crying for love.
Little Baby Tantrum, Mother Pinka’s youngest child, stood in the open beside a mossy log. His tiny chest rose and fell quickly as he sobbed. His little hands shook. His tail curled tightly around his leg. And his eyes… they begged for comfort.
Most visitors thought he was just spoiled. A baby who wanted extra attention. But those who stayed long enough — those who truly watched — saw something deeper in his trembling body. His cry wasn’t annoying. It was painful.
He was hungry.
He needed milk.
And he needed his mother.
But Mother Pinka, tired from caring for a large family, stayed focused on grooming an older sibling. She glanced at Baby Tantrum but didn’t move. Perhaps she was exhausted. Perhaps she wanted him to grow stronger on his own. Or perhaps… she didn’t hear how loud his heart was calling.
Baby Tantrum tried walking toward her, but his legs wobbled. He stumbled. He whined louder — body shaking as his hunger grew stronger. He reached up with both arms, begging to be lifted. But Pinka didn’t come.
That moment hit me hard. I thought about human children — how they cry not because they are spoiled, but because they trust someone will answer. That trust is powerful. And sometimes… painful.
Baby Tantrum tried to climb a tree — but fell. He looked around with panic in his eyes. Alone. Scared. Weak.
I could feel it:
This wasn’t just a tantrum.
It was a plea for survival.
