The rain in the Angkor Wat forest has a way of swallowing sound — turning voices into whispers and footsteps into soft echoes against the ancient stones. On that storm-washed afternoon, the forest felt heavier than usual, as if it, too, knew something painful was unraveling before our eyes.
I had been following the troop for most of the morning, watching baby Rainbow cling tightly to her mother’s chest, tiny fingers curled into soft fur. She was hungry — anyone could see that — nudging gently toward her mother’s milk every few minutes. Her calls were soft, tired, desperate.
But Angella — little abandoned Angella — saw the opportunity too.
She hovered nearby, thin ribs rising sharply under her damp fur, eyes dark with the kind of hunger no baby should ever know. She had been alone for days. No mother. No warmth. No one claiming her. When she saw Rainbow nestled into her mother’s arms, she crept closer in hope… hope that maybe this mother would allow one more tiny mouth.
That’s when Libby noticed.
Libby, the dominant female — strong, territorial, protective to the core. Her eyes narrowed, face tensing with warning. Before Angella even reached Rainbow’s mother, Libby moved with lightning speed.
She kicked Angella first — a sharp, sudden jolt that sent the little one stumbling backward into the wet leaves.
Angella froze.
Rain slid down her face like tears she didn’t have the strength to cry.
Still desperate, she tried again — just a small step, barely more than a wobble — but hope can make even the weakest babies try one more time.
That tiny step was all it took.
Libby pushed her hard, sending Angella rolling in the mud, her little limbs trembling, her body too frail to fight back. She squeaked — such a small sound, swallowed by thunder.
Rainbow’s mother stayed still, shielding her own baby, not daring to interfere with Libby.
I wanted to run in. I wanted to scoop Angella up, shield her, tell her she mattered. But this was nature’s brutal law — the hierarchy of survival. One mother’s protection meant another baby’s rejection.
Angella lay there silently, her small chest heaving, rain gathering like pearls across her fur. For a moment, she didn’t move at all. The forest held its breath.
Thunder cracked overhead, shaking the canopy.
And then — slowly — Angella’s fingers curled into the wet soil. She pushed herself upright. Her eyes flicked toward Rainbow again, then toward Libby, then away.
Something inside her broke in that moment… but something also awakened.
She stood — shaky, fragile, but standing still.
The forest seemed to open its arms to her then — not with kindness, but with a kind of quiet acceptance. A small bird trilled nearby. Leaves rustled softly in the wind. Even the ancient stones of Angkor Wat appeared to glow faintly under the rain, as if reminding her she was not as alone as she felt.
I followed at a distance as she walked away from the troop, every step slow and hesitant. Her little feet pressed into the mud, leaving behind tiny prints that the rain quickly erased. She paused often, looking back, as if hoping Libby might reconsider or Rainbow’s mother might offer some tiny bit of mercy.
But they didn’t.
Still, Angella continued onward, choosing survival in the only way she could.
Minutes later, something remarkable happened.
A gentle female from another part of the troop — older, calmer, less bound by dominance — approached Angella. She didn’t offer milk, but she offered warmth, lowering her body beside the trembling baby. Angella leaned into her, barely able to believe she was allowed to.
In that moment, the forest didn’t feel so cruel anymore.
Watching them — Angella, small and shivering, leaning into unexpected compassion — something inside me knew: she would survive. Not because the forest was gentle, but because she had courage stitched into her tiny bones.
Libby’s harshness had broken her heart, but it also forced her away from danger and toward a chance — a small one, but still a chance — at belonging again.
And that is the haunting beauty of the Angkor Wat forest.
It destroys.
It protects.
It denies.
It gives.
And sometimes, even after the harshest kick and the cruelest push, it offers a new path — one lined not with milk, but with unexpected hope.
