The Angkor Wat forest was unusually quiet that morning. The sun had just risen over the ancient stones, spilling soft orange light across the trees. A breeze shifted through the leaves, carrying the faint sound of cicadas. Somewhere near the edge of the temple, a mother monkey named Sori was trying—desperately—to find a moment of peace.
But today, peace would not find her.
Her baby, a tiny clingy boy the locals affectionately called “Nimo,” refused to let go of her body. His little fingers wrapped so tightly around her fur that even when she shifted, twisted, or tried to gently shake him off, he held on harder.
Sori winced as she walked. She was thin from the dry season, her body tired from nights spent searching for food. Every few steps, she paused and looked over her shoulder with a pleading expression — the same look exhausted human mothers give after a sleepless night with a crying newborn.
Visitors at Angkor Wat didn’t understand the depth of these tiny dramas. But to anyone who watched closely, this was more than just a baby monkey being clingy. This was a mother trying to balance her instinct to care with her own desperate need for rest.
I watched from a comfortable distance, trying not to disturb them. Sori dropped onto a stone ledge, shoulders slumping. She reached down and tried to pry Nimo’s fingers loose. He squeaked and pressed his face deeper into her chest, terrified she would walk away.
That moment — the sound of his little cry — stopped her completely.
She froze. Then, in an instant, something softened.
The frustration in her eyes melted into the purest expression of reluctant love. She gently lifted Nimo back onto her chest, letting him press close. Even though her muscles were trembling with exhaustion, she curled her body around him protectively.
This wasn’t a mother who didn’t care.
This was a mother who cared too much — even when it hurt.
When Sori stood again, Nimo clung with both arms and legs wrapped around her torso. She walked slowly through the trees, each step heavy but determined. She kept turning her head to check on him, making sure he was still secure.
I thought about the mothers I knew back home in the U.S. — friends, sisters, coworkers. Women who carried toddlers on their hips while cooking dinner. Women who went to work tired because their babies cried through the night. Women who wanted a break but also couldn’t bear the thought of stepping away from the little ones who depended on them.
Sori was no different.
The forest was her home, the temple stones her playground, but motherhood — that weight of responsibility, love, and fatigue — was universal.
As the sun rose higher, the forest grew louder. Monkeys chattered, tourists stepped along the pathways, and the smell of fruit drifted through the air. Sori found a shaded spot beneath a towering tree and sat down. This time, she didn’t try to push Nimo away.
Instead, she let him cling.
His breathing slowed immediately, falling into a comforting rhythm. He wasn’t being defiant — he was scared, hungry, and unsure of the world. And she wasn’t being cold — she was simply tired.
I watched her pull him closer, almost like a human mother whispering, “It’s okay… I’m still here.”
For a few minutes, the world felt still.
It reminded me that in every species — human or monkey — motherhood is a balancing act. Some days are filled with patience and sweetness. Other days are heavy with fatigue and frustration. But the bond between parent and child remains unbroken, no matter how overwhelming the moment becomes.
When Sori finally stood again, Nimo clinging like a tiny heartbeat against her chest, she moved with a quiet acceptance.
She would carry him.
And he would trust her.
And together, they would survive the morning.
Watching them disappear into the shadows of the Angkor Wat forest, I felt strangely grateful — reminded of all the mothers who carry more than anyone ever sees.
