One night, I raced out of the shower to find my 3-year-old kid crying and smeared in red paint, with my wife sitting nearby, addicted to her iPad. Frustrated and perplexed, I quickly discovered a more serious issue: my wife’s quiet struggle, which threatened to tear our family apart. It was a normal evening.
My wife sat in the recliner, scrolling through her iPad, as she regularly did. I thought the kids were in bed. I thought it was the ideal moment for a long, relaxing shower.
I heard a faint cry as I stood in the hot water. At first, I dismissed it, believing it was nothing significant. But suddenly the cry out became louder and more frantic.
“Daddy! Daddy!” my 3-year-old son’s voice pierced through the sound of running water. I hurriedly turned off the water, grabbed a towel, and exited.
As I walked through the family room, I noticed my wife. She was still sitting there, transfixed to her iPad and entirely unaware of the chaos in the other room. “You couldn’t calm him down?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
She didn’t even look up. “I tried three times,” she said, sounding bored. Three times?
I shook my head, irritated, and rushed into my son’s room. I was ready to console him, but nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. As soon as I came inside, I noticed him sitting up in his bed, his little body quivering as he sobbed.
“Daddy, I made a mess,” he exclaimed between gasps. “It’s okay, buddy,” I said softly, assuming it was just tears and snot. “We’ll clean it up.”
I got closer and picked him up.
He grabbed to me hard while still crying. His face was buried in my shoulder, and I could feel moisture dripping down my neck. “Poor guy’s been crying so long,” I thought.
But then something seemed wrong. His pajamas were excessively soaked. I placed him back down and took out my phone to turn on the flashlight.
That was when I noticed it: red everywhere. At first, I thought it was blood, and my heart rate fell. I froze.
However, as I peered closer, I discovered it wasn’t blood. The paint was red. “Where did this come from?” I mumbled, scanning the room.
Then I noticed an open pot of red paint on a tiny table near his crib. My wife had been painting animals with him the night before, and he must have tipped the jar over. “Daddy, I’m sorry,” he cried again, his little hands covered in red.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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