One night, after a 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, I quickly discovered that the issue was deeper than I realized—my wife was silently struggling with something that threatened our family.
It started like any other evening. My wife was in the recliner with her iPad, and the kids were supposed to be in bed. I heard my son crying, but at first, I ignored it. When his cries grew desperate, I rushed to him, only to find him sobbing in his bed, covered in red paint, and wet from an accident.
I was stunned. My wife hadn’t helped. She said she tried, but my son said, “Nobody checked on me.” That’s when I realized something was wrong. She hadn’t noticed the mess or his distress, and it felt like she was checked out of our family.
The next day, I packed a bag and left with our son, needing space. I called my mother-in-law, and she later told me that my wife was dealing with depression. The weight of motherhood had drained her, and she had lost herself in the process.
Over time, with therapy and support, my wife began to heal. She started painting again, reconnecting with herself. Slowly, she rebuilt her bond with our son, and I saw her come back to the person I loved. Our family wasn’t perfect, but we were healing together.
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