I never expected a quiet morning walk through the Angkor Wat forest to turn into one of the most emotional moments I’ve ever witnessed. The sun had barely risen, laying soft gold across the ancient stones, when I saw the small movement in the trees. There, perched on a fallen branch, was Lura—the gentle, protective mother monkey known by a few locals who often spot her near the temple walls.
But that morning, something felt different. Lura wasn’t simply grooming her baby or cradling him the way she usually did. Instead, she was pushing him—gently but firmly—away from her body. At first, I thought she was distressed or annoyed, but then I saw her face… steady, calm, almost patient.
It felt strange to watch. I didn’t want to misinterpret what was happening, but in that moment it looked like Lura was already teaching her tiny newborn one of the toughest lessons of life: how to stand on his own feet.
Her baby—whom I silently started calling Lino—kept reaching for her chest, wrapping his tiny fingers around her fur. But each time he tried to cling, she nudged him toward the branch again. She wasn’t rejecting him. She wasn’t being harsh. She was teaching him strength.
And even though I wasn’t part of their world, something about the scene tightened my chest. It reminded me how all parents—human or not—carry the quiet burden of knowing that love sometimes means letting go just a little.
Lino squeaked softly, unsure of what to do. His legs wobbled as he tried to balance. I could see the confusion in his eyes. He didn’t understand why the warm, safe place he knew so well—the rhythm of his mother’s heartbeat—was suddenly out of reach.
But Lura watched him with a stillness that spoke of deep, patient love.
She wasn’t teaching him independence to be distant; she was teaching it because life in the forest can be unpredictable. She was giving him the tools to survive the moments when she couldn’t reach him—moments every mother fears.
After several shaky attempts, Lino finally managed to grip the branch without falling back onto her. It lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like watching someone take their very first step in life.
Lura leaned forward, brushed her nose gently against his head, and pulled him close for a moment. It was her quiet way of saying:
“I know it’s hard. But you did it.”
The tenderness of that gesture nearly broke me.
As I stood beneath the sprawling ancient trees of Angkor Wat, I realized how deeply universal that moment was. Every parent has felt that heartbreak—the push-and-pull between protecting their child and preparing them for the world. Every child has felt that confusion when love no longer looks like the warmth they’re used to.
And every witness, like me, walks away changed.
Eventually, Lura lifted Lino onto her back, letting him rest his small head on her shoulder. She carried him toward the tall roots of a strangler fig, the golden light following them like a blessing. The lesson was done for the day. But the memory of it… that would stay with me forever.
And maybe, just maybe, watching Lura helped me understand something about my own fears of letting go, of trusting the world to hold someone I love. Sometimes the ones who teach us the deepest lessons aren’t human at all—they’re quiet souls living their lives beneath ancient ruins, reminding us what it truly means to love.
