IT WAS FOUR hours before we were allowed in to see Tori. As we enter her room, the first thing I see are her glazed eyes and her flushed cheeks. She’s awake but staring into the wall across the room. Afraid of saying the wrong thing, I allow her parents to approach her first. They’ve got more experience with dealing with her like this. They say very little, though, and I’m guessing that’s what she needs at the moment.

“Mr. Cole,” an older doctor addresses me, placing his hand on my shoulder. “A word, please.” I follow the doctor out into the hallway, and Tori’s dad follows us. I may be responsible for her now, but I can’t blame her parents for their concern. Tori and I have only been together for a year and a half and they’ve been dealing with this half of her life, evidently.

The doctor brings us to a small, quiet waiting area a couple of doors down and closes the three of us inside. He takes a seat on one of the chairs, then pauses for a moment, nodding at the other chairs, suggesting we sit down. Tori’s dad takes a seat first and I follow suit. Maybe this is the doctor’s attempt to create the appearance of a calm environment, but in reality, I’m freaking out inside and there isn’t much a quiet room and soft voices are going to do to help this. “I know this is difficult,” he begins. “We had a psychiatrist come in to speak with Tori for a bit to find out the cause for her panic attack and breakdown.”

“Were you able to find anything out?” I ask hastily.

A tight-lipped, somewhat annoyed grimace stretches across the doctor’s mouth as he inhales sharply through his nose. “We were able to peel a single layer away, but as I’m sure you can understand; we have a patient confidentiality agreement preventing us from divulging details.”

Frustration fills me and instantly morphs into a type of anger I’ve been doing my best to keep at bay. Looking at the redness in Tori’s father’s face, I can assume I’m not the only one feeling this way.

“Had Tori threatened to harm herself before this incident?” the doctor asks.

“Just today, she mentioned it. Never before. She’s been mildly depressed since our son was born four months ago, and I’ve been encouraging her to see a doctor or a therapist. She has argued with me about it, and while she is supposedly seeing a therapist, I don’t know whether or not she’s suffering with postpartum depression since she has denied that was the case any time I’ve brought it up. She hasn’t even told me who her therapist is, or what she is seeing him or her for.”

The doctor relaxes into his chair and crosses one leg over the other, radiating calm. He’s good. He can shut it all out, go home and pretend like today didn’t happen. Me, though, my life is in ruins and I feel like my body is being shocked with thousands of tiny electrodes. “I might go out on a limb in agreeing with her on the postpartum depression part of the equation because some of her symptoms point to a much different diagnosis, one that has been present for much longer than four months.” I know the amount of information I’m receiving right now is probably as much as I’m going to hear, but I’m sorting every fact out in my head like a puzzle, staring at the clues and not knowing which piece to start with first.

“Tori has suffered breakdowns many times throughout her life, but she has been okay for several years now, and we thought it all might have been a thing of the past. Sadly, it seems we were wrong,” her dad volunteers.

“It seems as though there may have been a trigger to reignite this issue,” the doctor says. “However, that piece of information is not one we were able to extract.”

“Never have been,” her dad concedes.

“Has Tori ever been enrolled in an inpatient rehabilitation program before?”

“What kind of rehab?” I ask the doctor. “She’s not taking drugs or drinking excessively.”

“It’s a different kind of rehab, Mr. Cole. When we have patients who have made an attempt at suicide, we like to take preventive measures in getting the patient better before releasing him or her back into their normal lifestyle.” Oh my God. We have a newborn at home, and my wife is about to be admitted to a psych ward? Is that what he’s suggesting in nice words?

“How long is a typical stay?” I ask.

“It depends on the patient. Everyone is different.”

Selfishly, I want to know what this will do to us. This is so out of the blue for me and nothing I’ve ever considered happening. My biggest worry was that my wife had fallen out of love with me or realized she never loved me in the first place. I didn’t consider that a serious issue might be the underlying cause of her behavior and mood swings.

“We will support whatever you feel is best, Doctor,” Tori’s dad says.

“I agree,” I add in, feeling like I’m at a loss for a happy ending to this situation, and even though I can’t imagine how hard this will be, I know it’s what has to happen. “Whatever it takes to get her better.” Can I be hopeful enough to think this could work or do I prepare myself for more disappointment? I have a history of believing everything is going to work out for the best and finding it not to be the case.

“There will be some paperwork coming your way, and we’re going to be following up with Tori in regards to the next steps.” The doctor stands from his seat and offers both Tori’s dad and myself a handshake.

He leaves the two of us in the small waiting room, both of us in silence. I may be the only one in complete disbelief, though. Her dad places an arm around my shoulder and claps his hand over my arm a few times. “Let’s get our girl some help,” he says.

The weight I’ve been carrying on my shoulders for months just got a hell of a lot heavier and I may be in some kind of shock.

When we re-enter Tori’s room, her mother is sitting on the edge of the bed, running her fingers through Tori’s matted strands of hair. “I’m sorry,” Tori tells her.

“Tori, I know you have no control over these situations. There’s no need to apologize,” her mother says in a loving way.

I make my way over to the bed and kneel down beside her, curious as to how she’ll react to me after her incredible flip-flopping behavior today. Without a word, I take her hand and bring it up to my lips. “I’ve been so worried about you,” I tell her.

“I owe you an apology too, AJ. I’ve been a horrible wife and mother for the past few months.” I shake my head to disagree with her. It’s the last thing I want her to be worrying about right this second. “You don’t have to pretend like it’s not true.”

“We’re going to get you the help you need, and things are going to be okay,” I reassure her. Though, I can’t help but wonder if what I’m saying is a lie. How could I know?

A weak smile struggles over her lips, and she reaches her hand up to my cheek. This is the Tori I know—not the small smile, but the gesture and the wide-eyed look. “I don’t know if that’s possible,” she says.

“Of course it is, T,” I assure her. I get that she may be feeling pessimistic if she’s been seeking help for years, regardless of hearing this for the first time today, but if rehab is new to her, maybe this will finally help. That’s what rehab is for, right?

“I’m going to this rehab place for a while,” she says, taking a second to look at each of us. “AJ, will you be able to handle Gavin on your own?” I could say so much in response to this question, but it isn’t necessary.

“We’ll be okay. What’s important is that you get well so we can continue our lives peacefully,” I tell her, trying to convince myself that this will be the outcome.

The forced smile disappears from Tori’s mouth, and she swallows against what sounds like a dry throat.

With no response from Tori, her mom chimes in with, “AJ has quite the support system. You know you can always count on us too, AJ.”

After a day from hell, I head home, alone, without my wife, to an empty house. Hunter has taken Gavin home with him and I am sitting at my kitchen table in front of a chocolate cupcake resting on a small dessert plate. Despite everything horrible that occurred today, I need a brief timeout for my little girl.

I carefully place a candle in the center of the cupcake, light it, and make a wish. “Happy Birthday, kiddo. Your dad loves you—I hope you know that. I wish you were here. I wish I could hug you. I wish I could see what is probably the most beautiful smile in the world. I wish I could see how much you must look like your mom.” I blow the candle out and lean back into my chair, feeling the heaviness in my heart weigh me down just a little more.