In the ancient forest surrounding Angkor Wat, where banyan roots clutch the stones of forgotten temples, a single cry echoed through the quiet morning. It was sharp, trembling, and full of fear — the unmistakable cry of a newborn monkey in distress.
Her name was Baby Sori, and to anyone passing by, it looked as though her mother, Anna, wanted nothing to do with her. People whispered. Tourists frowned. Even locals muttered, “Why does the mother act like that?”
Some said Anna “hated” her baby.
Some said she “didn’t care.”
Some said she was simply a “bad mom.”
But the truth — like most truths in the wild — was far more complicated.
That morning, Sori had tumbled from her mother’s arm and landed on the soft leaf bed below. It wasn’t a hard fall, but to a newborn only days old, the world felt terrifyingly big. She cried, legs trembling, reaching desperately for her mother.
Anna, instead of picking her up right away, turned her head, pacing back and forth with agitation. From a distance, it looked cold. Cruel. Heartless. The kind of behavior that turns a mother into a villain.
But I had watched Anna for months.
She wasn’t cruel.
She wasn’t hateful.
She was overwhelmed — painfully so.
Anna was barely out of adolescence herself. She had given birth early, before the troop’s older females could teach her the instincts every monkey mother must learn to survive. And here she was, suddenly responsible for a fragile newborn who needed constant warmth, support, and protection.
Every time Sori cried, Anna flinched.
Every time Sori stumbled, Anna panicked.
Every time another monkey approached, Anna backed away in fear.
It wasn’t rejection — it was uncertainty.
But to a newborn, uncertainty feels like abandonment.
Sori’s little hands shook as she tried to crawl back toward the only heartbeat she had ever known. When Anna didn’t reach for her, Sori cried harder, and the sound echoed through the trees like a tiny alarm bell searching for someone — anyone — who might help.
I watched as Anna finally turned toward her baby. Her face tightened, her movements stiff, her breathing uneven. She stepped closer… then stopped. She reached out… then pulled her hand back. Her instincts and her insecurity fought inside her.
To anyone watching, it looked like coldness.
To a newborn, it felt like pain.
And to Anna, it was fear.
Sori cried again — a sound so full of loneliness that even the troop’s dominant male paused and looked over.
And this time, something inside Anna finally broke.
She stepped forward with determination instead of fear. Her hands, though still trembling, reached out and gently scooped her newborn up from the leaves. Sori clung to her instantly, her tiny arms wrapping around Anna’s chest as if clinging to life itself.
Anna didn’t push her away this time.
She pulled her close.
Something shifted in that moment — something almost sacred. A young, inexperienced mother finally connected with her baby in the way she had been too overwhelmed to do before.
Anna groomed Sori softly, brushing away dirt and dried leaves with careful strokes. She checked her tiny limbs. She touched her forehead. She murmured soft, low grunts — reassurance, apology, love.
Sori quieted instantly.
And then, when Anna lifted her face to the sunlight filtering through the trees, I saw it: a softness, a connection, a bond forming right there in the middle of the Angkor forest.
All the earlier panic, the avoidance, the fear — it wasn’t hatred. It wasn’t cruelty. It wasn’t a “bad mom.”
It was a young mother learning how to be gentle in a world that rarely gives second chances.
As the day went on, Anna kept Sori closer than ever. Not a gesture was wasted. She shielded her from a passing macaque. She held her when the wind blew. She let her rest on her chest as the troop moved to the old stone walls near the temple.
There were no more cries.
No more hesitations.
Only a mother and baby rediscovering each other.
And as the sun set over the ancient ruins, turning the forest gold, Anna curled herself around her newborn — a silent promise that Sori would never face the world alone again.
Sometimes the wild looks harsh.
Sometimes mothers look “bad.”
But most of the time, what you’re seeing is fear, overwhelm, and inexperience — not hatred.
In the end, Anna didn’t hate her baby.
She was simply learning how to love her.
And that, in the wild, is its own kind of miracle.
