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.”

But other details kept troubling me.

Richard never wore short sleeves, not even during the hottest Chicago summers. He never changed clothes in front of me. When we were intimate, he insisted every light be turned off. And if I ever hugged him suddenly from behind, his whole body went stiff as stone.

One night, after both children had grown and left home, I finally asked the question that had been haunting me.

“Do you have another woman?”

The spoon slipped from his hand and hit the bowl.

He stared at me with fear so raw it silenced me.

“Don’t say that.”

“Then tell me what you’re hiding.”

To my shock, Richard stood from the table, trembling.

Then he began to cry.