I Heard Our Baby Crying While My Wife Watched TV – What I Found in His Room Left Me Screaming!

I Heard Our Baby Crying While I Was in the Shower & My Wife Was Watching TV – When I Entered His Room, I Screamed in Shock

My wife was sitting nearby, addicted to her iPad, and my 3-year-old kid was weeping and splattered in red paint when I hurried out of the shower one evening. Feeling bewildered and frustrated, I quickly discovered a more serious problem: my wife’s ongoing quiet battle, which was threatening to destroy our family.

It was just another evening. Like she always did, my wife was sitting in the recliner and going through her iPad. I assumed the kids were in bed. I reasoned that now would be the ideal time for a lengthy, soothing shower.

As I stood beneath the steaming water, I heard a small whimper. I dismissed it at first, figuring it was nothing major. But suddenly the cry grew more urgent and louder.

My son, who is three years old, cried out, “Daddy! Daddy!” above the sound of flowing water.

I snatched up a towel, switched off the water, and hurried out. Upon entering the family room, I took a quick look at my spouse. She was still there, engrossed in her iPad and totally unaware of the commotion occurring in the adjacent room.

“You couldn’t calm him down?” With a stronger tone than I meant to, I asked.

She did not raise her gaze. She seemed bored as she replied, “I tried three times.”

Three times? Frustrated, I shook my head and rushed into my son’s room. Though nothing could have prepared me for what I witnessed next, I was nonetheless prepared to console him.

As soon as I entered his room, I noticed him sitting upright in bed, his small frame quivering with grief. “Daddy, in between gasps, I made a mess,” he remarked.

I whispered, “It’s okay, buddy,” thinking it was only snot and tears. “We’ll clean it up.”

I moved in closer, snatching him up. Clinging to me closely, he continued to wail. I felt moisture trickle down my neck as his face was buried in my shoulder. I thought, ‘Poor guy, he’s been crying for so long. Subsequently, though, something felt off. It was too damp for his jammies.

After putting him back down, I reached for my phone to switch on the flashlight. That’s when I noticed it; everything was crimson. My heart stopped for a moment because I thought it was blood. I became motionless. However, upon closer inspection, I saw that it was not blood. It was paint in red.

“Where did this come from?” Whispering, I looked around the space. Then I noticed the red paint container open on the little table next to his crib. He and my wife had been painting animals the previous evening when he must have accidentally knocked over the jar.

“Daddy, I’m sorry,” he sobbed once more, his small hands smeared with blood.

I tried not to panic and said, “It’s okay.” Paint is all that it is. We’ll tidy things up.

However, it got worse the more I examined it. His clothes, hair, and bed were all covered in paint. It was encountered everywhere. Moreover, I became aware that he had also soaked himself. My annoyance boiled up. How could my wife have missed this?

I took a big breath and gently cleaned his face. “Why didn’t Mommy come help you?” In an attempt to put things together, I asked quietly.

With a sniff, he gazed at me through those large, innocent eyes. “My mom didn’t give me a call. Nobody came to see how I was doing.”

His remarks hurt. I thought she had attempted. I wasn’t so sure now, though.

As I lifted him to the restroom, the gravity of the circumstance began to set in. Beyond the damp jammies and spilt paint, there was a deeper issue.

No one had arrived, and my son had been left all by himself, sobbing and afraid. I couldn’t get my wife out of my head as I was giving him a bath; she was still sitting in that chair and grinning at whatever was on her screen.

I toweled him off after we were finished and went back to the family room. She hadn’t made any movement. When I walked in, she didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

“I don’t understand,” I remarked in a quiet but irate tone. “How could you not hear him crying?”

“I told you, I tried three times,” she said, keeping her eyes fixed on the screen.

With a snarl, “But he said you never checked on him,” I shot back.

With a shrug, she remained silent.

With our son in my arms and me covered in paint and bath water, I felt as though I was on the brink of something more significant than a rough evening. I had no idea what was wrong or how to solve it.

I knew this was not over because of the overwhelming tension that pervaded the room. There has to be a change. However, what?

I prepared a bag for my son and myself the following morning. I couldn’t stay in the house, but I wasn’t going to leave for good just yet. I required room to make sense of things. As we drove away, I told my wife very little. She hardly responded at all, simply nodding as if my choice didn’t matter.

When I got to my sister’s house, I made an impromptu call. I gave my mother-in-law a call. Though I did admire her, this was more than just an update on a difficult circumstance.

I required clarification. I’m sure I had no idea what was going on with her daughter, but maybe she knew.

“Hey, when you pick up, I need to talk to you,” I said. “Something’s not right with your daughter.”

She sounded worried in her voice. “What has taken place? Did you get into a fight?

I exhaled. “It goes beyond that. Our son was left weeping and coated in paint last night when she chose to ignore him. It’s not just one bad night; I’m not sure what’s going on with her. She seems… aloof. Indifferent. There are no better words to express it.”

After giving it significant thought and pausing for a while, my mother-in-law said, “I’ll come over. Permit me to speak with her.”

She gave me another call after a few days. She spoke in a quieter, almost hesitant tone than usual.

She said, “I talked to her.” “At last, she revealed herself. It’s not the baby or you. Depression is the cause.”

I was completely taken aback by the word. Depression? I hadn’t given that much thought before. I hadn’t stopped to think that there might be more going on because I was so consumed with my annoyance and rage at her actions.

Her mother went on, “She’s been struggling for a while now.” “Being a mother and having less time for her art and herself. It’s been too much for her. She has a sense of being stuck and has lost her identity.”

Stunned, I stood there. I was unaware that she was experiencing this. How was I able to? She remained silent the entire time.

Her mother continued, “She’s agreed to see a therapist.” “However, she will require your assistance. It won’t be simple.

Encourage. That phrase kept coming to mind. Though I was furious and prepared to leave, I had to consider the true struggles my wife was facing. This has nothing to do with us being lazy or uninterested in our son. It went beyond that. I had to find a way to assist her now.

My perspective on the world changed while I was living with my son. Not only was caring for him alone difficult, but it was also very draining.

Diapers, tantrums, and attempting to keep him occupied dominated every day. Barely had time to catch one’s breath, much less deliberate. I was tired, both mentally and physically, by the time I got him in bed.

I considered how my wife had been doing this every day for years without taking a vacation. She had neglected her art in order to care for our family, but she also lost a piece of herself in the process. I hadn’t realized how much motherhood had broken her spirit in a gentle way.

The next few weeks saw a gradual change in the situation. My spouse started visiting a therapist. I wasn’t sure if it would be helpful at first. Following their sessions, she remained silent and said little about what they had discussed. But with time, I observed a few subtle changes in her.

She contacted me one day when I was out with our son. Over the phone, her voice broke.

She said, “Can you come home?” “I need to talk to you.”

She was seated on the couch as I went in, looking exhausted but yet different. Her face had a softness about it that I hadn’t noticed in a while.

She apologized, her voice faltering. “I was unaware of the severity of the situation. I didn’t realize what it was doing to you or our son because I was so engrossed in my own little world inside my head.”

Unsure of what to say, I took a seat across from her. She did not stop talking.

“The counselor is assisting. I want to get better, even though I know it will take time. For us, not just for me. For him.

As she spoke, tears welled up in her eyes, and for the first time in a long time, I saw the person I had fallen in love with.

Things kept getting better in the months that followed. She took her time when she started painting again. Her mother would visit and look after our boy while she went to her painting studio for a few hours, spending time with the self she had neglected for a long time.

One evening, she told me, “I forgot how much I love this,” and she showed me a canvas that she had been working on. “It feels good to create again.”

Her relationship with our son also began to mend. I would see them reading aloud or her showing him how to use crayons to sketch basic shapes. Bit by bit, the gap that had once divided them was beginning to close. As if he sensed that Mommy was truly back, he also appeared happier and more at ease.