It was a regular evening. My wife sat in the recliner, scrolling through her iPad while I enjoyed a long, relaxing shower. I thought the kids were asleep.

Suddenly, I heard a faint cry. At first, I ignored it, but then it grew louder. “Daddy! Daddy!” my 3-year-old son’s voice pierced through the sound of running water.

I quickly turned off the shower, grabbed a towel, and rushed out. My wife was still glued to her iPad, seemingly oblivious.

“You couldn’t calm him down?” I asked, my voice sharper than intended.

“I tried three times,” she replied, not looking up.

Frustrated, I hurried into my son’s room and froze. He sat up in bed, trembling. “Daddy, I made a mess,” he sobbed.

“It’s okay, buddy,” I said, thinking it was just tears. But his pajamas were wet. I turned on my phone’s flashlight and saw red paint everywhere.

A crying child | Source: Shutterstock

“Where did this come from?” I scanned the room and found an open jar of paint. My wife had been painting with him the night before, and he must’ve knocked it over.

“Daddy, I’m sorry,” he cried, his little hands stained red.

“It’s just paint,” I reassured him, but my frustration grew when I noticed he had wet himself too. How had my wife not seen this?

“Why didn’t Mommy come help you?” I asked softly.

“Mommy didn’t check on me. Nobody checked on me.”

His innocent words stung. I had assumed she tried, but now I wasn’t so sure.

I carried him to the bathroom, feeling the weight of the situation sink in. My son had been left alone, scared and crying. I couldn’t shake the image of my wife, absorbed in her screen.

After bathing him, I returned to the family room. She hadn’t moved and didn’t even look up.

“I don’t understand,” I said, frustration boiling over. “How could you not hear him crying?”

“I told you, I tried three times,” she repeated.

“But he said you never checked on him,” I shot back.

She shrugged, silent.

Holding our paint-covered son, I felt like I was on the edge of something bigger. This wasn’t just a bad night; something had to change.

The next morning, I packed a bag for my son and me. I wasn’t leaving for good, but I needed space. My wife barely reacted.

At my sister’s place, I called my mother-in-law, needing answers.

“Hey, I need to talk to you,” I said. “Something’s not right with your daughter.”

She sounded concerned. “What’s happened?”

“She ignored our son, left him crying and covered in paint. She’s distant, uncaring.”

After a pause, she said, “I’ll come over. Let me talk to her.”

A few days later, she called back. “I spoke to her. It’s depression.”

That word hit me. I had focused on my frustration without considering deeper issues.

“She’s been struggling,” her mother continued. “The pressure of motherhood has been overwhelming.”

I stood stunned. I had no idea she felt this way. How could I? She never said anything.

“She’s agreed to see a therapist, but she’ll need your support.”

Support. I had been angry, but now I had to think about what my wife was going through.

While staying with my son, I began to see things differently. Taking care of him was exhausting.

In the months that followed, things improved. My wife began painting again, slowly reconnecting with her creativity. Her bond with our son healed too.

“I forgot how much I love this,” she told me one evening, showing me a canvas.

Our family wasn’t perfect, but we were healing. Together.