One evening, I rushed out of the shower at the sound of my 3-year-old son’s cries. Drenched and panicked, I ran into his room, shocked to find him covered in bright red paint. Nearby, my wife was absorbed in her iPad, seemingly oblivious. My confusion quickly turned to anger as I realized this moment hinted at something far deeper, a rift forming in our family.
The night had started like any other. My wife lounged comfortably, browsing on her iPad. Believing the kids were asleep, I decided to take a relaxing shower. But soon, the sound of faint cries became unmistakable.
“Dad! Dad!” My son’s voice cut through the noise. Wrapping a towel around myself, I dashed to his room, passing my wife, who remained unbothered.
“Did you try to calm him down?” I asked, feeling frustration build.
Without looking up, she said dismissively, “I tried three times.” Her response stung—no urgency, no concern.
When I reached my son, he was sitting on the bed, sobbing. “Daddy, I made a mess,” he cried, small hands sticky with paint. Expecting a minor spill, I reassured him, but as I turned on my phone’s flashlight, I gasped. Red paint was smeared everywhere—on his clothes, the bed, even in his hair.
Trying to stay calm, I asked, “Didn’t Mom come to help you?”
“Nobody came,” he said softly, a sadness in his eyes that broke my heart.
After cleaning him up, I returned to the living room, facing my wife. “How could you not hear him crying?” I demanded.
She barely looked up. “I tried three times,” she repeated. Her apathy felt like a slap. This wasn’t just a rough night—something was wrong.
The next morning, I made a decision. I packed a bag for myself and our son, seeking clarity away from home. We went to my sister’s place, and later, I made a difficult call to my mother-in-law.
“There’s something wrong with your daughter,” I said, describing the night’s events and my concerns. After a long silence, she promised to speak with her.
A few days later, she called back. “It’s depression,” she said quietly. “She’s felt trapped, overwhelmed by motherhood. She needs help.”
That revelation hit me hard. I had been so focused on my frustration that I hadn’t seen her struggle. Her mother explained that she had agreed to seek therapy but would need my support.
In the weeks that followed, my wife began to change, little by little. She reconnected with things she loved, like painting, and gradually grew closer to our son. One evening, she called me, her voice soft, almost fragile. “Can you come home? I need to talk.”
When I returned, she apologized, her voice trembling. “I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten. I’m sorry,” she said. For the first time in a long time, I glimpsed the woman I had fallen in love with.
As months passed, our family began to heal. My wife found strength through therapy, rediscovering herself, and rebuilding bonds. Our family isn’t perfect, but we’re healing—together.
