My son works long hours. His wife stays home with the baby. And if I’m honest, every time I visited, I judged her.
She always seemed to be on her phone. The baby would cry, and there she was—scrolling. I grew up believing that when a baby cried, you picked them up. Screens felt like laziness.
Then yesterday changed everything.
I stopped by unannounced and found my son in the kitchen, holding the baby with one arm while stirring a pot with the other. He looked exhausted—dark circles, slumped shoulders.
“Where’s your wife?” I asked.
“She’s resting,” he said.
Resting.
I walked into the bedroom and saw her lying down. Before I could stop myself, I said, “Must be nice to nap while my son raises your child.”
She looked at me—not angry, just tired.
“I’ve been up since 2 a.m.,” she said quietly. “The baby wouldn’t sleep. Your son made me lie down an hour ago. This is the first rest I’ve had today.”
Then she said something that stayed with me:
“You see five minutes. I live the other twenty-three hours.”
She walked past me, took the baby from my son, and the crying stopped almost instantly.
Watching them together, I realized how wrong I’d been. I’d mistaken exhaustion for laziness. Survival for indifference.
Before I left, I apologized.
Driving home, I understood something important:
Being home with a baby isn’t rest.
And being tired doesn’t always look like hard work.
Sometimes it means you’ve already given everything you had.
