That morning in the Angkor forest carried a tension that felt heavier than the humid air. Jill moved with urgency, her body angled protectively as another monkey pressed too close. Her focus never wavered.
Behind her, Baby Brutus Jr. cried—loud, sharp, and searching. It wasn’t hunger or impatience. It was confusion. He didn’t understand why his mother couldn’t turn back right away.
Jill’s movements were firm, even forceful, but not reckless. She was defending space, drawing a line she hoped wouldn’t need to be crossed again. Every step she took forward asked something difficult of the small body behind her.
Brutus Jr.’s cries echoed through the trees, stopping a few of us in place. Some moments feel private even when witnessed. This was one of them.
Eventually, Jill returned. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just present. She gathered her baby close, letting his cries fade against her chest.
In the forest, love doesn’t always look gentle in the moment. Sometimes, it looks like choosing safety first—and trusting that comfort can come seconds later.
