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.”

That’s how women of my generation were raised. Don’t pry. Don’t embarrass your husband. Don’t open doors better left closed.

But there were other things.

Richard never wore short sleeves. Not even during brutal Chicago summers when the humidity stuck to your skin like wet cloth. He never changed clothes in front of me. During intimacy, he insisted every light remain off.

And if I wrapped my arms around him unexpectedly from behind, his entire body would lock up like stone.

One night, after the children were grown and gone, I finally exploded.

“Do you have another woman?”

The spoon slipped from his hand and clattered into the soup bowl.

He stared at me with pure fear in his eyes.

“Don’t say that.”

“Then tell me what you’re hiding.”