My husband used to lock himself in the bathroom every morning at 4 a.m. for thirty-five years. And the night I finally looked through the keyhole, I understood why he always whispered, “I’m doing this to protect you.”

Later, darker thoughts entered my mind. Maybe he was praying. Maybe crying. Maybe hiding some private addiction. Maybe even speaking to someone in secret.

But none of it made sense.

Richard did not smell of alcohol. He did not smoke. He never stayed out late or disappeared with friends. He lived like a man terrified of doing anything wrong.

The strangest thing was not the routine itself.

It was the silence around it.

Sometimes I heard the faucet running. Sometimes the soft click of bottles on the sink. Sometimes wrappers opening. And once in a while, I heard a low sound from him, something strained and quickly swallowed.

The first time I asked him directly, all the color drained from his face.

“It’s my stomach, Eleanor. Please don’t ask questions.”

So I stopped.

That was how many women of my generation were raised. Do not pry. Do not embarrass your husband. Do not open doors he wants closed. Marriage