One night, after a shower, I found my 3-year-old son crying and covered in red paint. My wife sat nearby, absorbed in her iPad, seemingly unaware. Frustrated and confused, I cleaned our son and asked why Mommy hadn’t helped. His words crushed me: “Nobody checked on me.”
That moment exposed something deeper. My wife wasn’t just distracted—she was distant. The next day, I took our son and left for my sister’s. I needed space, but also answers. I called my mother-in-law, unsure what was really going on.
A few days later, she told me: “She’s struggling with depression.”
That word hit hard. I had mistaken her silence and detachment for apathy, never realizing she was overwhelmed, lost in the demands of motherhood and disconnected from herself.
As she began therapy, things slowly shifted. One day, she called me in tears: “I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten. I want to get better—for us.”
She started painting again. Her bond with our son began to heal. And so did our family.
We’re not perfect—but we’re finding our way, together.