The skies above Angkor Wat had turned gray, heavy with rain and memory.
It wasn’t just another storm that day — it felt like the heavens themselves were mourning something unseen.
Beneath an ancient banyan tree, Old Jade sat alone with her baby, the rain soaking her fur until it clung to her thin, tired frame. The baby monkey, full of restless innocence, squeaked and tugged at her arm, seeking warmth and milk. But Jade’s body was weary — her strength had long been fading after days of hunger and endless searching for food among the wet stones of the ruins.
The baby cried louder. Each sound pierced through the rhythm of the falling rain. Jade turned her head sharply. Her patience — that gentle, eternal patience of a mother — finally broke.
In a flash of pain and exhaustion, she lifted her hand and struck the little one.
The forest froze.
The raindrops seemed to hang in midair.
The baby stared at her — wide-eyed, stunned. His tiny body shook, not from the cold, but from confusion.
He didn’t understand. To him, Jade was the only safety in this wide, wet world. And suddenly, that safety had become something that hurt.
Old Jade’s chest heaved as she realized what she had done.
The sound of her own hand echoing against the baby’s soft body felt louder than thunder. She turned her face away, but her breath caught, trembling with regret.
She didn’t mean to hurt him. She never did.
But survival in the wild isn’t kind. Hunger twists the heart; exhaustion blurs the line between care and frustration. Sometimes love breaks before it bends.
The baby whimpered, crawling a few inches away, tail dragging through the mud. He sat there, soaked, his little hands clutching his belly, his eyes never leaving her face. That look — small, trusting, wounded — shattered Jade’s heart.
And then… she moved.
Old Jade reached out slowly, hesitantly, her arm shaking. The baby flinched, unsure — but then, something inside him remembered her warmth. He crawled back toward her chest, pressing his wet head against her fur.
Jade pulled him close, tighter than before.
The rain continued to fall, but now it washed away more than dirt — it carried her guilt, her exhaustion, her sorrow. She rocked him gently, whispering silent apologies into his tiny ears, hoping somehow he understood.
It was one of those moments you never forget — where nature reveals something human. Watching them, you could feel every mother’s secret fear: that one day, love might not be enough. That survival might make you do something you can’t undo.
But love, even bruised, finds its way back.
The baby eventually stopped crying. His small eyes fluttered shut, lulled by her heartbeat. Old Jade kept rocking him until the rain softened into mist and the light began to change, turning the leaves into glimmers of gold.
In that quiet, the world seemed to forgive her too.
I stood there for a long while, hidden behind the roots, unable to leave. I thought about all the mothers I’ve known — human and otherwise — who carry the same weight, who love so fiercely it hurts.
Jade reminded me that love is not always gentle. Sometimes it’s raw. Sometimes it breaks us before it heals us. But it always endures.
As the forest fell silent again, I saw the baby lift his face and nuzzle her cheek.
And for the first time that day, Old Jade smiled — a tired, trembling smile — as if the rain had finally forgiven her.
