One evening, after a long shower, I rushed out to find my 3-year-old son crying and smeared in red paint, while my wife sat nearby, engrossed in her iPad. I was frustrated, but soon realized there was a deeper issue at play: my wife was struggling with something far more serious than I had noticed.

I thought the kids were in bed and expected a relaxing shower. But when my son’s cries grew louder, I quickly discovered him sobbing, covered in red paint and soaked pajamas, along with signs he had wet himself. I was annoyed—how hadn’t my wife noticed? He told me, “Mommy didn’t check on me. Nobody checked on me,” which stung deeply.

As I cleaned him up, I couldn’t shake the sight of my wife still sitting there, staring at her screen, seemingly unaware of the chaos. When I confronted her, she claimed she’d tried, but my son’s words made me question that.

The next day, I packed a bag for myself and my son, needing space to think. I reached out to my mother-in-law, who listened and later called back with a revelation: my wife had been battling depression. The pressure of motherhood, losing herself, and neglecting her art had overwhelmed her. She agreed to see a therapist, but she would need my support.

Suddenly, I saw things differently. Taking care of our son was exhausting for both of us, but I hadn’t considered the emotional toll it took on her. She had sacrificed so much of herself for our family, and I hadn’t realized how deeply it had affected her.

Over time, with therapy and support, she began to improve. She started painting again and reconnected with our son. Her bond with him grew, and I saw her gradually returning to the woman I had fallen in love with.

Our family wasn’t perfect, but we were healing together.