Lately, my husband had grown distant—quiet, tired, and withdrawn. He came home late, barely spoke, and avoided our two-year-old daughter,

Mia, except on weekends when I worked. After those weekends, Mia seemed scared and tearful, and worry consumed me.

One Sunday, I hid a small camera in her room before leaving for work, torn by guilt but desperate for answers.

That night, I watched the footage with trembling hands. At first, everything seemed normal—Mia played while he scrolled on his phone.

Then he set it aside, lifted her gently, and whispered, “Daddy’s trying his best, baby.” He clumsily fed her, sang off-key songs,

and danced awkwardly, wiping sweat from his forehead. Later, sitting on the floor, he murmured, “I’m so scared

you won’t love me if I don’t do this right.” My tears flowed as I realized it wasn’t neglect—it was fear.

The next morning, I confronted him softly. He broke down, confessing he’d been taking online parenting lessons to bond better with Mia

but felt ashamed and anxious. His stress made him seem cold. We talked for hours and healed together. Now,

Mia laughs freely again, dancing between us—proof that sometimes distance hides not indifference, but love learning how to grow.