I always thought my son and his wife shared responsibilities well. He works long hours, and she stays home with the baby. But every time I visited, she seemed glued to her phone while the baby cried. Yesterday, I found my son cooking one-handed with the baby on his hip. My daughter-in-law was in bed. Frustration took over. I went to her room and said sharply, “Must be nice to nap while my son raises your child.”
She looked up with red, tired eyes and whispered, “I’m trying.”I left irritated, but something in her voice stayed with me. Later that night, my son walked me to my car. His voice was calm but heavy. “Mom, she’s not lazy. The doctor thinks she has postpartum depression. She barely sleeps or eats. She’s scared she’ll mess something up.”
His words hit me hard. Suddenly, all the things I’d judged—the phone, the dishes, her silence—looked different. They weren’t signs of neglect. They were signs of a woman drowning quietly. Shame washed over me. I had mistaken fear for irresponsibility and exhaustion for indifference. My son told me he was doing more around the house because, right now, she needed him. “She thinks she’s failing,” he said softly.
“Comments like yours make it worse.” The next morning, I returned with a different heart. I sat with her, apologized sincerely, and listened. She cried and shared how lost she felt. In that moment, I realized families grow not through judgment but through compassion—and sometimes the greatest help is simply choosing to understand.