The first time I heard her small voice echo through the morning mist, I thought it was just the wind playing tricks. But then it came again, clearer this time: “Come on, Mummy! I’m staying here!”
We were deep in the jungle near Angkor Wat, the ancient stones draped in vines, roots twisting like giant serpents reclaiming the temple ruins. The air was heavy, humid—alive with the soft rustling of leaves, the distant calls of birds, and the shy leaps of macaque monkeys perched high in the canopy. In that green hush, her voice was a shock: a child’s defiance, raw and truthful.
I turned to see her standing at the edge of a mossy ledge, sunlight filtering in through breaks in the trees, dust motes dancing around her. Her small hand reached out to me, fingers trembling slightly, but it wasn’t fear in her eyes—it was resolve.
“Why?” I whispered, my voice catching in my throat.
“Mummy,” she said, looking straight at me, “I want to stay with the jungle. It’s… it’s alive.”
She had her little backpack slung over her shoulder, the straps a bit loose. Her shoes were muddy; somehow she had sneaked away from our guide moments ago. My heart pounded. Angkor’s forest isn’t just beautiful—it’s ancient, tangled, and full of secrets.
I dropped to my knees beside her. “We have to go back. The tour group is waiting. It’s not safe to wander alone.”
Her eyes filled, not with tears but with something fiercer: longing. “This is my temple now, Mummy. The trees speak to me. Can’t I stay?”
How do you argue with a soul that young and brave? The roots here weren’t just roots—they were arms reaching out, they whispered in shadows. I remembered reading how nature at Angkor has reclaimed the ruins in tender, powerful ways. The strangler figs, the kapok trees: they grow over centuries, wrapping the stones, enveloping history in green.
I swallowed hard. My maternal instinct warred with something else—admiration. For a moment, I let her be, just taking in her presence in that sacred place, her boldness shimmering in the humid air.
“Okay,” I said softly, “You stay — for a minute. I’ll be right here.”
She nodded, and I sat on a broken stone bench, watching her move gently, like she was greeting old friends. A cicada buzzed somewhere close. A monkey chattered above. The temple walls were carved with silhouettes of apsaras and dancers, moss creeping in like time itself.
As she set her backpack down, she reached for a small flower that had fallen between the cracks of worn stone. She held it like a treasure, closing her eyes, breathing in the forest’s fragrance. My throat tightened. In that moment, I felt what she felt: this was not just a jungle. It was alive. A breathing, gentle cathedral.
I wanted to scoop her into my arms, but I didn’t. Instead, I whispered, “Do you want me to stay too?”
Her smile was small but fierce. “Yes,” she replied.
The guide called out in the distance, “Madame, votre fille?” but his voice seemed far away, as though muted by the forest. I ignored it for a moment longer.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, but instead of calling for help, I opened the camera. I filmed her — her quiet courage, the way her hair caught the morning light, how she traced the moss on the temple walls, her little fingers brushing against the ancient carvings. I knew this was something I needed to remember forever.
Then, almost in a whisper, I told her, “Promise me you’ll always remember this place. Promise me that when you grow up, you’ll carry this moment in your heart.”
She turned and looked at me, her voice soft but unwavering: “I promise, Mummy.”
I clicked off the camera. I rose to my feet, gently picked up her backpack, and offered my hand. “Come on. Let’s go back together.”
She took my hand. The forest felt different then—less strange, more like a friend granting us permission to leave. The shadows didn’t seem as threatening, and the ancient stone seemed to guide us gently back along the path.
On the walk back, I asked her, “Why did you want to stay, truly?”
She paused. High overhead, a hornbill cried. Leaves rustled. She said, “Because here, I feel like I belong. Not to a city, not to schedules, not to adult worries. Just to… wonder.”
Tears blurred my vision. “Your wonder is a gift,” I told her. “One day, you can carry it anywhere.”
When we rejoined our group, the guide looked relieved. But instead of scolding her, I thanked her—for reminding me what it’s like to see the world with fresh wonder, to listen, to lean into mysteries. I promised her I’d help her return someday, just her and me, maybe even camp in this forest, if it’s allowed.
As we climbed into the tuk-tuk back to Siem Reap, she leaned her head on my shoulder. I glanced at her profile, quiet and content. In her sleepiness, she whispered, “Will we come back, Mummy?”
I kissed her forehead. “Yes. We’ll come back.”
