by One evening, after a quick shower, I rushed to find my 3-year-old son crying and covered in red paint, while my wife sat nearby, engrossed in her iPad. Frustrated and confused, I quickly realized there was a deeper issue at play—one that could tear our family apart.
It started like any other evening. My wife was in the recliner, absorbed in her iPad, while I thought the kids were asleep. I saw it as the perfect opportunity to take a relaxing shower.
But then, I heard a faint cry. At first, I thought it was nothing, but as the sound grew louder and more desperate, I quickly turned off the water.
“Daddy! Daddy!” My son’s voice pierced through the noise of the shower.
In a panic, I grabbed a towel and rushed out, only to find my wife still sitting there, glued to her screen, unaware of what was happening in the next room.
“You couldn’t calm him down?” I asked, frustration creeping into my voice.
Without even looking up, she casually replied, “I tried three times.”
Three times? That didn’t sit well with me. I hurried into my son’s room, ready to comfort him, but nothing could prepare me for what I found.
There he was, sitting on his bed, his tiny body trembling as he sobbed. “Daddy, I made a mess,” he whimpered.
I immediately went to him, thinking it was just a minor spill. “It’s okay, buddy,” I reassured him, “we’ll clean it up.”
But then I noticed his pajamas were soaked. Something wasn’t right. I grabbed my phone and used the flashlight to scan the room, only to freeze in shock. Everywhere I looked, there was red. At first, I thought it was blood, but upon closer inspection, I realized it was red paint.
“Where did this come from?” I whispered, scanning the room until I saw the open jar of paint on a nearby table. My wife had been painting with him the night before, and it seemed he had knocked it over.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” he cried, his hands covered in red.
“It’s okay,” I said, trying to stay calm. “It’s just paint. We’ll clean it up.”
But then, I saw how bad it really was. The paint was everywhere—his bed, his clothes, even his hair. And as I looked closer, I realized he’d also wet himself. My anger flared—how could my wife not notice this?
I wiped his face and asked softly, “Why didn’t Mommy come to help you?”
Through his tears, he looked at me with those innocent eyes and said, “Mommy didn’t check on me. Nobody checked on me.”
Those words hit me hard. I had assumed she had at least tried, but now I wasn’t so sure.
I carried him to the bathroom, where I began to clean him up, but the whole time, I couldn’t shake the image of my wife sitting there, completely oblivious to our son’s distress.
Once he was cleaned up and wrapped in a towel, I returned to the family room. She hadn’t moved an inch. I stood there, holding our son, feeling a mix of frustration and disbelief.
“I don’t understand,” I said, my voice low but tinged with frustration. “How could you not hear him crying?”
“I told you, I tried three times,” she responded, still staring at her screen.
“But he said you didn’t check on him at all,” I shot back, my anger rising.
She shrugged, not saying anything more.
I stood there, holding our son, feeling like everything had just shifted. Something was wrong—this wasn’t just a bad night. There was more going on, and I didn’t know what to do.
The next day, I packed a bag for my son and me. I wasn’t leaving for good, but I needed space to think. I didn’t say much to my wife as we left. She barely reacted.
Once we were at my sister’s, I made a call to my mother-in-law, not just to update her but to seek answers. I needed to understand what was going on with my wife because I certainly didn’t.
After explaining the situation, she was quiet for a moment, then replied, “I’ll come over and talk to her.”
A few days later, she called back with news that shocked me.
“I spoke to her,” she said softly. “It’s not you or the baby—it’s depression.”
I was stunned. I had never considered that. I had been so focused on my frustration with her behavior that I didn’t stop to think about what might be going on beneath the surface.
“She’s been struggling for a while,” her mother continued. “The pressures of motherhood, putting her own needs aside… it’s been overwhelming for her.”
My mind was racing. I had no idea. She had kept it all inside, and I had failed to see it.
“She’s agreed to see a therapist,” my mother-in-law added. “But she’ll need your support. This won’t be easy.”
Support. I had been ready to walk away, but now I needed to step up for her. This wasn’t about neglect—it was about a deeper issue that I hadn’t understood.
Staying at my sister’s place with my son gave me time to reflect on how hard motherhood was. Every day felt like a blur of demands and exhaustion. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how my wife had been dealing with this for years without a break.
After a few weeks, things began to improve. My wife started therapy, and although she wasn’t always open about it, I began to notice small changes in her.
One day, she called me while I was out with our son. “Can you come home?” she asked. “I need to talk to you.”
When I walked in, I saw her sitting on the couch, looking tired but with a softness in her face I hadn’t seen in a long time.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice shaking. “I didn’t realize how bad things had gotten. I was so lost in my own world that I didn’t see what it was doing to you or to our son.”
We talked, and she explained that the therapy was helping. She wanted to get better—not just for herself, but for us and for our son.
Over time, she started painting again, reconnecting with a part of herself that she had long neglected. She would spend time in her art studio while her mother watched our son, and slowly, she found a sense of peace again.
Her relationship with our son also began to heal. I saw them reading together or working on simple art projects. The bond between them was strengthening, and he seemed happier too.
Our family wasn’t perfect, but we were healing—together.
