It was before dawn when we reached the clearing. Mist curled between the ancient stones near Angkor Wat, and the air smelled of damp earth and distant rain. We had driven for hours, and in the back seat, Sacky pressed his forehead to the window, staring without seeing.
He didn’t cry. He just whispered once: “I’m scared.”
For days we had been unpacking boxes, carrying clothes, arranging beds — doing all the “grown-up” things you do when you settle into a new house. But we never asked ourselves: how does this feel to a child’s heart?
Because a child doesn’t just see walls. A child tastes the dust drifting in from outside. A child hears the night — the unfamiliar calls, the wind shifting in tall trees, the thump-thump of unknown creatures moving beyond the windows.
When his mother offered her hand that first night, Sacky recoiled. Mommy’s hand had always meant safety in our old neighborhood — concrete sidewalks, neighbors, streetlights. But here — swinging lanterns, long shadows, and silent trees — that hand felt strange. Foreign.
I found him curled on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest. I sat beside him, careful not to startle him. I remembered the stories they told of forest spirits near Angkor — tales whispered to hush children at bedtime. I didn’t want him to believe those tales tonight.
So instead of words, I reached for his small foot with mine. A subtle contact. A silent promise: you’re not alone.
It was minutes before he looked at me. His eyes, wet with fear, flicked toward the flickering lantern. I didn’t speak. I didn’t ask him to hold my hand. I just stayed. Steady. Calm.
And later, when the crickets rose and the wind sighed through banana leaves, he curled into my arms.
It wasn’t a big gesture. It wasn’t dramatic. No fireworks, no declarations. Just the quiet comfort of human closeness.
By dawn, when he woke, the forest looked different in his eyes. The trees weren’t as tall. The shadows not as threatening. The night not so dark.
That’s when his mother touched him gently on the shoulder and whispered, “Come walk with me.” He reached out — slowly — and took her hand. In that small gesture, I felt something like magic.
Because in a new place, with new sounds and strange air, sometimes the softest touch can do what words can’t: heal fear, build trust, make a house become home.
