led to consider the possibility that something deeper was going on.

“She’s been struggling for a while now,” her mother continued.

“The pressure of motherhood, losing time for herself, for her art.

It’s been overwhelming for her. She feels trapped, like she’s lost who she is.”

I stood there stunned. I had no idea she felt this way.

How could I?

She never said anything.

“She’s agreed to see a therapist,” her mother added. “But she’s going to need your support.

This won’t be easy.”

Support. That word echoed in my head.

I was upset and ready to walk away, but now I had to consider what my wife was truly going through.

This was not about neglecting our son due to laziness or disinterest. It went deeper than that. And now I needed to figure out how I could help her.

While being with my son, I began to see things differently.

Taking care of him on my alone wasn’t just difficult; it was draining.

Every day was a whirlwind of diaper changes, tantrums, and attempts to keep him engaged.

There was scarcely time to breathe, let alone think. By the time I put him to bed, I was exhausted, both physically and mentally.

I reflected on how my wife had been doing this every day for years without taking a break.

She put her art aside to care for our family, but in doing so, she sacrificed a part of herself. The weight of motherhood had gently shattered her spirit, and I hadn’t realized.

Over the next few weeks, things gradually began to alter.

My wife started seeing a therapist.

At first, I wasn’t sure if it would work. She was somber after her sessions and didn’t speak much about what they discussed. But, as time went, I saw little changes in her.

One day, she called while I was out with our son.

Her voice cracked on the phone.

“Can you come home?” she asked.

“I need to talk to you.”

When I stepped in, she was seated on the couch, looking tired yet somehow different. There was a softness in her face that I hadn’t seen in a long time.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice trembling.

“I didn’t realize how bad things had gotten. I was so lost in my own world, in my head, that I didn’t see what it was doing to you or to our son.”

I sat down next her, unsure what to say.

She continued talking.

“The therapist is helping.

I know it’ll take time, but I want to be better. Not just for me, but for us. For him.”

Her eyes welled up with tears as she talked, and for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, I recognized the person I had fallen in love with.

Things gradually improved over the next few months.

She began painting again, hesitantly at first.

Her mother would come over and keep our son while she spent a few hours in her art studio, reconnecting with a part of herself she had neglected for far too long.

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

Her bond with our son has also begun to repair.

I’d see them reading together or her teaching him how to draw basic shapes with crayons. The distance that had previously separated them was gradually closing.

He seemed happier, more calm, as if he sensed Mommy’s return.

Our family was not perfect, but it was healing.

Together.