<\/p>\n
It was a normal evening\u2014my wife in her recliner, scrolling her iPad, the kids supposedly asleep. I took the chance to enjoy a long shower. But through the water, I heard my 3-year-old crying. At first, I ignored it. Then I heard, \u201cDaddy! Daddy!\u201d<\/p>\n
I rushed out, passing my wife, still fixated on her screen. \u201cYou couldn\u2019t calm him down?\u201d I asked. She didn\u2019t look up. \u201cI tried three times,\u201d she said flatly.<\/p>\n
In my son’s room, he was shaking and sobbing. \u201cDaddy, I made a mess,\u201d he cried. I picked him up, assuming it was just tears\u2014until I felt wet pajamas and saw red everywhere. My heart dropped. Blood? No\u2014paint. Red paint was all over him, his bed, everything.<\/p>\n
His little voice broke me: \u201cMommy didn\u2019t check on me.\u201d I couldn\u2019t understand how she hadn\u2019t noticed.<\/p>\n
I bathed him, still stunned. Back in the family room, she hadn\u2019t moved. I asked again, angry and confused. \u201cHe said you never came.\u201d She just shrugged.<\/p>\n
The next morning, I packed a bag and left with our son. I needed space. Later, I called my mother-in-law. \u201cSomething\u2019s not right with your daughter.\u201d<\/p>\n
She called me days later. \u201cShe\u2019s struggling. It\u2019s depression,\u201d she said. The word hit hard. I\u2019d been angry, but hadn\u2019t seen her pain. She felt trapped, lost in motherhood, and had let go of herself\u2014and her art.<\/p>\n
She started therapy. It was slow, but I saw small changes. One day, she asked me to come home. Tearfully, she apologized. \u201cI didn\u2019t see what it was doing to you or him.\u201d<\/p>\n
Eventually, she began painting again. Her bond with our son grew stronger. We weren\u2019t perfect\u2014but we were healing. Together.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"