I still remember how the forest around Angkor Wat seemed to hold its breath that afternoon. The moss‑covered stones of ancient temples glowed in the late sun, but nothing prepared me for what I saw on the rooftop perched above it all — a mother, exhausted, trembling on the edge, holding her small child.
I was guiding a small tour group through one of the quieter temple terraces, far away from the crowds, when a local villager whispered, “There’s someone up there.” At first, I thought she meant a monkey (as you often do in these parts), but then my heart sank: it was a woman. Her silhouette against the sky made her look fragile, and the child she held seemed so small, so vulnerable.
She climbed up a narrow stone staircase that the guides said was rarely used anymore. At the rooftop — maybe 20 meters above the forest floor — she stood with her child cradled in her arms, her face streaked with sweat and tears. The wind blew lightly through the canopy, rustling the leaves, and for a moment, I felt like the forest itself was watching her.
We called out, gently. I raised my voice, “Ma’am, are you okay?” But she looked at us like she didn’t quite know where she was. Her eyes darted, and her grip tightened on her baby. It wasn’t just fear — it was exhaustion, heartbreak, desperation.
She whispered, “I can’t keep doing this.” I couldn’t hear her as clearly then, but later I learned what she meant. She told a guide that she had left everything: her home, her family, and come to this place hoping for peace, hoping somehow that the sacred stones and the forest would give her strength. But caring for her child alone, day after day, had worn her down. There had been nights without sleep; days when she didn’t know how she would feed the little one. She was “poor, so poor,” she said, her voice cracking.
I stepped closer, slowly, never wanting to frighten her more. We asked if she’d like water, or help. The guide offered to climb up and carefully take the baby, and try to bring them both down. She hesitated. But then she nodded. In that moment, I saw something of her inner fight — not just a mother at her limit, but a woman still fighting, still hoping.
She let the guide cradle her child. The baby rested uneasily in his arms, looking around, wide-eyed. For a second, I saw her look at her little one — such love, such fierce protectiveness. She reached out, brushing the child’s hair, whispering softly, “My baby, my heart.”
The descent was slow. Stone by stone, our team carried her, carried him. The forest watched: ancient ceiba trees, thorny vines, orchids blooming in shaded crevices. It felt like the forest was offering a gentle hand, silent but compassionate.
When her feet finally touched the ground, she collapsed on a mossy stone. The child was placed by her side. She wrapped her arms around him and sobbed. Her tears weren’t just exhaustion — they were release. The moment held the weight of countless mothers who give everything and feel as though there’s nothing left to give.
I stayed with her for a while, offering water, tissues, words of comfort. She told me her name — Srey, which in Khmer means “female” (though here I know it as “daughter”), and she said she hadn’t felt safe to ask for help before. She was proud, and she was afraid of burdening others. But perched on that rooftop, her pride was gone; she was simply a mother at the end of her strength.
Over the next hour, other villagers and guides came. Someone brought a blanket. A monk from a nearby shrine offered a prayer. In that hallowed space, surrounded by ancient ruins and the green hush of forest, she found a kind of shelter — not just for her body, but for her spirit.
I asked her, gently, what she hoped for next. She said, “A chance … just a chance to rebuild. To be strong for him.” And she looked into her child’s eyes, and her voice broke, “He’s everything.”
That line — he’s everything — stayed with me long after we left. The forest, the ruins, the wind: they all felt like witnesses to her moment of breaking, and her moment of choosing to keep going.
Her Rooftop Moment changed me. It made me think of the unseen mothers around the world, worn down by care, loneliness, and responsibility — and yet, capable of extraordinary courage.
