Richard and I lived in a modest brick house in South Chicago, the kind of home built slowly through overtime shifts, careful savings, tax refunds, and years of sacrifice. To everyone else, my husband was dependable. Quiet. Hardworking. A man who never drank too much, never caused trouble, and never raised his voice unless he was pushed beyond his limit. Marriage
People often told me I was lucky.
I met Richard in 1969 at a church fundraiser. He was twenty-five then, working at a steel fabrication plant near Gary, Indiana. I was twenty-two, still living by my father’s strict rules. We married the next spring and built a family together, raising our two children, Michael and Claire. Parenting
We were never rich, but we endured every difficult season life gave us.
Still, Richard had one habit that quietly ate away at me for decades.
Every morning, without fail, he woke at exactly four o’clock.
He would slip out of bed, move down the back hallway to the bathroom near the laundry room, lock the door, and stay inside for nearly an hour.
At first, I assumed it was a health problem.
