I Rushed to Check on Our Crying Baby and Was Shocked by What I Found

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 close by, hooked 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. Angry and perplexed, I quickly discovered a more serious problem: my wife’s ongoing, quiet battle that was threatening to destroy our family.

It was a typical night. As usual, my wife was scrolling through her iPad while seated in the recliner. I assumed the kids were in bed. I reasoned that it was the ideal moment for a lengthy and soothing shower.

As I stood beneath the hot water, I heard a faint cry. I initially disregarded it because I didn’t think it was serious. However, the cries became more urgent and louder.

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

I hurried out after turning off the water and grabbing a towel. I looked at my wife as I walked through the family room. Despite everything going on in the other room, she remained seated and engrossed on her iPad.

“You couldn’t calm him down?” My voice was sharper than I meant when I asked.

She didn’t even raise her head. She said, “I tried three times,” with a bored tone.

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

As soon as I entered, I noticed him sitting upright on his bed, sobbing and trembling. He said, “Daddy, I made a mess,” in between screams.

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

I approached and took him in my arms. Still sobbing, he held me close. I could feel the moisture trickling down my neck as his face was buried in my shoulder. As I thought, “Poor guy’s been crying so long,” Then, though, something felt off. He was excessively damp in his pajamas.

I put him back down and switched on the flashlight on my phone. At that moment, I noticed it was crimson all over. I initially thought it was blood, and my heart fell. I went cold. However, upon closer inspection, I saw that it wasn’t blood. The paint was red.

“Where did this come from?” I looked around the room and murmured. Then I noticed that the little table next to his crib had an open pot of red paint. Somehow, he must have knocked over the jar while my wife and he were painting animals the previous evening.

“Daddy, I’m sorry,” he sobbed once again, his tiny hands flushed.

Trying not to panic, I said, “It’s okay,” “It’s only paint. We’ll tidy things up.

However, it became worse the more I looked. His clothes, his hair, and his bed were all covered in paint. It was all over. Furthermore, I discovered that he had also wet himself. I became irritated. 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.

He stared at me with those large, naive eyes and sniffed. “My mother failed to check on me. No one came to see how I was doing.

His remarks were painful. I thought she had made an effort. I wasn’t so sure now, though.

As I picked him up and brought him to the restroom, I began to feel the gravity of the situation. There was more to the problem than wet jammies and paint spills.

No one had arrived, and my son had been left screaming and afraid. I kept seeing my wife sitting in that chair, grinning at whatever was on her screen, as I was giving him a bath.

I covered him with a towel after we were finished and went back to the family room. She hadn’t even moved. When I stepped in, she didn’t even raise her head.

I said, “I don’t understand,” in a low but irritated voice. “How could you not hear him crying?”

She repeated, “I told you, I tried three times,” while keeping her gaze fixed on the TV.

I snapped back, feeling my temper flare. “But he said you never checked on him,” I added.

Without a word, she shrugged.

I felt as though I was standing on the brink of something more significant than a horrible night as I held our son while dripping paint and bathwater. There was a problem, and I had no idea how to resolve it.

I realized that this was not the end of the anxiety that pervaded the room. There has to be a change. However, what?

I prepared a bag for myself and my son the following morning. I couldn’t stay at the house, but I wasn’t going anywhere permanently—at least not yet. I needed time to think things through. As we departed, I told my wife very little. She hardly responded at all, simply nodding as though my choice had no consequence.

I made an unforeseen phone call while I was visiting my sister’s house. I gave my mother-in-law a call. This felt like more than just telling her about a difficult circumstance, even if I liked her sufficiently.

I required clarification. Since I had no idea what was happening with her daughter, perhaps she would.

I said, “Hey, I need to talk to you,” as soon as she answered. “Something’s not right with your daughter.”

She sounded worried in her voice. “What has occurred? Have you gotten into a fight?

I let out a sigh. “It goes beyond that. Last night, she left our son weeping and coated in paint while ignoring him. It’s not just one bad night; I’m not sure what’s going on with her. She’s… aloof. indifferent. There is no other way for me to explain it.

After listening intently for a considerable amount of time, my mother-in-law remarked, “I’ll come over.” Let me speak with her.

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

Her words were, “I spoke to her,” “At last, she revealed herself. It’s not the baby or you. It’s depression.

I was hit by that word like a ton of bricks. Depression? That had never really occurred to me. I hadn’t stopped to think that something more serious was happening since I had been so preoccupied with my annoyance and my rage at her actions.

“She’s been having difficulties for some time,” her mother added. “The stress of being a mother, losing time for her art and herself.” For her, it has been too much. She feels stuck and as though she has lost her identity.

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

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

Assistance. I kept hearing that word. I was furious and about to leave, but I had to consider what my wife was actually going through. This was not about being lazy or uninterested and ignoring our son. It went farther than that. I now had to think of a way to assist her.

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

Diapers, tantrums, and attempting to keep him engaged dominated every day. There was hardly time to think, much less breathe. I was exhausted, both mentally and physically, by the time I put him to sleep.

My wife had been doing this every day for years without a break, I reflected. She sacrificed her art to care for our family, but in the process, she lost a piece of herself. I hadn’t realized that the burden of parenthood had subtly broken her spirit.

Things gradually began to shift over the course of the following few weeks. My wife started going to therapy. I wasn’t sure if it would be helpful at first. After her sessions, she remained silent and didn’t discuss much of what they had discussed. But over time, I became aware of a few minor 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 when I entered, looking worn out yet in some way different. Her face had a gentler quality that I hadn’t seen in a long time.

As she said, “I’m sorry,” her voice wavered. “I was unaware of the severity of the situation. I didn’t realize what it was doing to you or our son since I was so engrossed in my own world and thoughts.”

Unsure of what to say, I took a seat beside her. She continued to speak.

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

As she talked, tears welled up in her eyes, and I finally saw the person I had fallen in love with after what seemed like an eternity.

In the months that followed, things kept getting better. Slowly at first, she resumed painting. Her mother would visit and watch our boy while she spent a few hours in her painting studio, reestablishing a connection with the aspect of herself that she had long neglected.

She told me one evening, “I forgot how much I love this,” while displaying a painting she had been working on. “It feels good to create again.”

Her relationship with our son also began to improve. I would see them reading aloud or her showing him how to use crayons to sketch basic shapes. Slowly but surely, the gap between them was narrowing. As though he could tell that Mommy was truly back, he also appeared happier and more at ease.