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.”

At first, I assumed it was stomach problems.

Later, I wondered if he was praying… crying… hiding an addiction… or even talking to someone in secret.

But none of it made sense.

He didn’t smell like alcohol. He never smoked. He never stayed out late. He didn’t have friends he disappeared with. Richard lived like a man terrified of making mistakes.

The strangest part wasn’t the routine itself.

It was the silence.

Sometimes I heard water running softly. Medicine bottles tapping the sink. Plastic wrappers opening. And once in a while, a low sound escaped him—something between a groan and a swallowed scream.

The first time I asked him directly, his face lost all color.

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

So I stopped asking.