One evening, I rushed from the shower to find my 3-year-old son crying and covered in red paint, while my wife sat nearby, glued to her iPad. Frustrated, I rushed to comfort him, only to discover the chaos in his room: red paint everywhere and his pajamas soaked.

“Daddy, I made a mess,” he sobbed, and my heart sank. He said, “Mommy didn’t check on me,” which stung. I turned back to my wife, still staring at her screen, and frustration boiled over. “How could you not hear him?”

She shrugged, dismissing my concern. I felt a heavy weight settle in; something deeper was wrong. The next morning, I left with my son for my sister’s house, needing space to think. I called my mother-in-law, hoping for answers.

Days later, she told me my wife was struggling with depression, overwhelmed by motherhood and feeling trapped. My anger shifted to concern. I realized I had been oblivious to her silent struggle.

As weeks passed, my wife began therapy. Slowly, she opened up, expressing how lost she felt. I saw glimpses of the woman I had fallen in love with.

Gradually, she returned to painting, reconnecting with herself. Their bond grew too; she started reading and drawing with our son, who seemed happier.

Our family wasn’t perfect, but we were healing together, and I finally understood the importance of support and communication in navigating life’s challenges.