In the quiet, moss-covered corners of the Angkor Wat forest, the morning light usually feels soft—almost warm enough to calm even the smallest, most sensitive newborn. But on this particular morning, a tiny baby monkey named Alba curled herself into a trembling ball at the base of an ancient stone wall, her soft newborn squeaks echoing in the still air.
To someone passing by, it looked like Alba was alone.
It looked like her mother, Anna, simply didn’t care.
And honestly, that’s what I thought too when I first saw them.
Anna sat on a distant root, eyes half-closed, her tail draped across the dirt while Alba tried desperately to crawl toward her. Every few inches, Alba let out a quivering cry—the kind that wraps itself around your heart and squeezes.
It was the kind of sound no one forgets.
But as I watched longer, hidden behind a fallen tree trunk, I realized something most visitors never notice: monkey mothers, especially new ones, sometimes struggle. They worry. They hesitate. They don’t always know what to do. And Anna—despite looking distant—was watching Alba the entire time.
From the shadows, her eyes followed every wobble, every tiny fall, every frightened squeak.
Alba tried again, dragging herself using arms barely strong enough to lift her body. And again, she cried out when Anna didn’t rush forward. Her little hands reached out to the world like she was begging for reassurance.
For a moment, even I whispered under my breath:
“Come on, mama… go get your baby.”
But then something changed.
Alba slipped on a patch of leaves and tumbled sideways. Instead of crying, she paused—surprised. For the first time, she looked around, taking in the giant trees, the shifting branches, the golden sunlight dancing on the stone carvings.
And that’s when Anna finally moved.
Not running. Not panicking.
But slowly, calmly—like she had been waiting for Alba to find that moment of bravery on her own.
She reached Alba, scooped her with her arm, then brought her close to her chest. Alba’s cries softened instantly. Her tiny face pressed into Anna’s fur, and her breathing slowed into the kind of quiet, fragile sigh only newborns can make.
In that moment, I understood:
Anna wasn’t a “bad mom.”
She wasn’t cold.
She wasn’t uncaring.
She was teaching Alba—little by little—to be strong.
She cleaned Alba’s face with a gentle nibble, lifting patches of dirt from her cheeks. Alba clung to her mother’s chest with both hands, burying her face as Anna carefully inspected her, almost like counting every hair to make sure she was whole.
When Alba reached for milk, Anna shifted her body to let her latch comfortably. Despite being tired—so very tired—she leaned against the warm stone and let her baby nurse.
And for the first time that morning… she closed her eyes, not from exhaustion, but from relief.
Because Alba was safe.
Because Alba had learned.
Because Anna had done exactly what she intended.
From my spot in the forest, I felt something soften inside me too. It reminded me of the complicated ways human parents also love—how not all affection looks like constant holding, how sometimes distance is simply another form of protection.
The Angkor Wat forest fell quiet again. Sunlight warmed Anna’s back while Alba nursed peacefully, tiny fingers curled in trust.
Not a bad mother.
Not uncaring.
Just overwhelmed, protective, and learning—just like Alba.
And I realized something I’ll carry forever:
In the heart of Angkor Wat, even the smallest moments between mother and baby can reshape how we understand love.
