My son works long hours. His wife is a stay-at-home mom. Every visit, I felt a twinge: the baby crying, her scrolling on her phone. In my day, babies were held. You didn’t stare at a screen.
Yesterday, I visited unannounced. The house was quiet except for the baby fussing. I walked into the kitchen and froze. My son held the baby against his chest with one arm, gently bouncing while stirring something on the stove with the other. Exhaustion weighed him down.
“Where’s your wife?” I asked.
“Resting,” he said.
I found her in the bedroom, eyes closed, phone on the nightstand. Without thinking, I said, “Must be nice to nap while my son raises your child.”
She opened her eyes slowly. “Can I tell you something?” she asked. She had been up since 2 a.m., feeding, changing, walking the baby. My son insisted she rest for a moment. “This is the first time I’ve closed my eyes today,” she said. “I’m not on my phone because I don’t care. Sometimes it’s the only way I stay awake, sane, or connected to adults.”
Later, I watched them work together, silent, practiced. I realized I’d judged without seeing the full story—the nights alone, the constant vigilance, the invisible labor.
My son pulled me aside: “Mom, she’s an amazing mother. I don’t need defending.”
Driving home, I understood: being tired doesn’t always look like hard work. Rest doesn’t always mean doing nothing. Sometimes, it means you’ve already given everything.
