The morning air near Angkor Wat carried the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. Sunlight filtered gently through tall trees, catching on the ancient stones that have stood for centuries.
That’s where I noticed Lily.
She’s still very small—soft fur, wide eyes, and the kind of cautious curiosity that only babies carry. She followed closely behind her mother, Libby, who moved with the steady focus of experience.
At first, everything seemed ordinary. Lily reached for Libby’s side, trying to climb into her usual place against her chest. But Libby shifted away, distracted by another monkey nearby.
Lily paused.
She tried again, placing her tiny hands against her mother’s fur. Libby adjusted her posture once more, not harshly, just firmly—focused on something beyond Lily’s immediate need.
For a moment, Lily sat back on her own.
There was no loud cry. Just a stillness. A quiet uncertainty that felt almost human.
Watching it unfold, I was reminded of moments many American parents and children know well. A mother juggling multiple responsibilities. A child seeking reassurance at a time when attention is divided. The disconnect isn’t about lack of love—it’s about timing.
Lily looked around, then slowly reached forward again. This time, Libby glanced down, as if suddenly aware. She softened her posture and allowed Lily to climb onto her lap.
The change was subtle but meaningful.
Libby groomed Lily’s fur carefully, brushing away dust and tiny leaves. Lily leaned in, settling as though nothing had happened. The forest continued its rhythm—birds calling, branches swaying—but something tender had shifted.
It wasn’t a story of failure.
It was a story of adjustment.
Even in the wild, motherhood isn’t flawless. It’s responsive. It’s evolving. And sometimes it takes a second attempt to reconnect.
Under the quiet canopy of Angkor Wat, Lily and Libby reminded me that love doesn’t have to be perfect to be real. It just has to return.
