The forest around Angkor Wat carries sound differently in the late afternoon. Leaves shift quietly, birds call from distant branches, and the troop moves in calm rhythm.
Lily had been especially playful that day.
She tugged at Libby’s fur, climbed over her shoulders, and reached for her face while Libby tried to rest. At first, Libby tolerated it with patience. But when Lily pulled too hard, Libby reacted—firm but controlled.
She nudged Lily aside.
It wasn’t forceful. It wasn’t angry. It was instinct.
Still, Lily seemed startled. She stepped back, wide-eyed, and let out small cries that echoed softly against the temple stones.
In that moment, Lily looked so small.
I couldn’t help but think of American households where similar scenes unfold every day. A toddler pulls at a parent’s glasses. A child pushes past a boundary. The parent responds—not to hurt, but to guide.
The correction feels big to the little one.
Lily’s cries weren’t about fear. They felt like confusion. She edged forward again, hesitating, as if asking for reassurance.
Libby stayed close but did not immediately gather her in. She waited.
The pause felt important.
After a short moment, Libby shifted her posture. She lowered herself slightly and turned toward Lily.
It was subtle—but it was permission.
Lily approached carefully this time, climbing onto her mother with more gentleness than before. Libby began grooming her, slow strokes over Lily’s head and back.
The crying stopped.
The forest resumed its quiet rhythm.
Watching them settle together beneath the tall trees of Angkor Wat, I realized something simple: love includes limits. And limits, when followed by comfort, build trust.
By sunset, Lily clung peacefully to Libby’s chest, the earlier tears forgotten.
It wasn’t a story about doing wrong.
It was a story about learning how to belong.
