One night, I rushed out of the shower to find my 3-year-old crying, covered in red paint, while my wife sat obliviously, glued to her iPad. I quickly learned this was more than a messy evening—it was a sign of a deeper issue that threatened our family.

It had been a normal evening until I heard my son’s frantic cries. My wife, absorbed in her screen, didn’t respond. When I reached my son, he was soaked in red paint, clearly distressed. His pajamas were wet, and I realized he’d been left alone while my wife hadn’t checked on him. I cleaned him up and tried to understand why she hadn’t been there. He told me, “Mommy didn’t check on me. Nobody checked on me.”

The next morning, I left with my son to clear my head. I called my mother-in-law, suspecting something was wrong with my wife. She revealed that my wife had been struggling with depression for a while, feeling overwhelmed by motherhood and the loss of her identity. She was seeing a therapist and would need my support.

Over time, things began to improve. My wife continued therapy and slowly reconnected with herself, rediscovering her love for painting and gradually rebuilding her relationship with our son. Though our family wasn’t perfect, we were healing together.