One evening, I rushed out of the shower to find my 3-year-old son sobbing, covered in red paint, while my wife sat glued to her iPad. The paint was everywhere—his bed, clothes, hair—and he’d wet himself. Tearfully, he said, “Mommy didn’t check on me.” I was frustrated and confused.
When I confronted my wife, she claimed she had tried, but her lack of concern was obvious. The next morning, needing space, I took our son to my sister’s and called my mother-in-law. She told me my wife had been silently battling depression.
The pressures of motherhood had overwhelmed her, and she hadn’t known how to ask for help. That conversation changed everything. My wife began therapy, and little by little, I saw her come back to life—painting again, connecting with our son.
We’re not perfect, but we’re healing—learning how to be there for each other, even in the darkest moments.
