Every morning in the Angkor Wat forest begins the same way—but never feels ordinary.
Before the sun fully rises above the ancient stone towers, she is already awake. Her fur is thinner now, her movements slower than they once were. Years of motherhood, seasons of loss, and countless mornings like this have etched quiet wisdom into her tired eyes. Locals call her simply Old Mommy, but there is nothing small about the way she loves.
I first noticed her sitting beneath a fig tree, her back leaning against roots that have grown there for centuries. In her arms, her baby slept, curled tightly against her chest. One arm wrapped protectively around him, the other gently brushing away fallen leaves, insects, and the chill of early morning air. She barely moved—except to breathe with him.
This is their daily ritual.
The baby stirs first, blinking slowly as if the world feels too large each time he wakes. His fingers grip her fur, unsure whether to explore or retreat. Old Mommy lowers her head and touches her face to his—an almost imperceptible gesture, but one filled with reassurance. You’re safe. I’m here.
Around them, the forest awakens. Birds call from the temple walls. Other monkeys leap across branches, chasing food, noise, and youth. But she does not rush. She never has. Every moment with him feels intentional, as if she knows how fragile time can be.
As the baby grows restless, she shifts her position carefully, easing stiff joints without waking him too suddenly. Her body bears the marks of age—small scars, dulled fur, a limp she favors when climbing—but none of it weakens her devotion. When he finally lifts his head and looks at her, she answers with patience, not urgency.
She grooms him slowly, picking through his fur with practiced tenderness. Each movement is gentle, deliberate. This grooming is not just cleanliness—it is comfort, bonding, and teaching. The baby relaxes under her touch, his tiny body softening as if the world makes more sense when she is near.
Later, as the sun warms the forest floor, he becomes curious. He reaches toward fallen fruit, toward light filtering through leaves, toward everything unfamiliar. Old Mommy allows him space—but never distance. One hand always remains on him. A constant anchor.
When another monkey passes too close, she pulls him in without aggression, without panic. Just a firm, protective hold. Her eyes scan the surroundings, alert despite her age. Experience has taught her when to act—and when not to.
What strikes me most is not the dramatic moments, but the quiet ones. The way she rests her chin on his head while he nurses. The way she pauses before every step, ensuring he’s balanced. The way she absorbs his fear so he doesn’t have to.
There is no audience for her love. No reward. No guarantee of how long she can protect him.
Yet every day, she shows up.
As afternoon shadows stretch across Angkor Wat’s stones, she guides him higher into the trees, teaching him where it’s safe to climb and where it’s not. When he slips, she catches him instantly, heart steady, grip strong. He cries briefly, startled more than hurt, and she pulls him close until his breath slows again.
By evening, they return to familiar ground. She settles against the same roots, the same tree, the same memories. He curls into her side, exhausted from learning how to be alive. She does not sleep deeply. She never fully does anymore.
Because loving him means staying awake for danger, for hunger, for the unknown.
Watching them, it’s impossible not to see something deeply human in her care. The sacrifices. The patience. The quiet endurance of a mother who has already lived so much, yet gives everything she has left to someone just beginning.
In the fading light of Angkor Wat, Old Mommy presses her baby closer and closes her eyes—not to rest, but to listen. To feel his heartbeat. To make sure tomorrow can begin the same way.
