We married in a small ceremony and moved into this very house in 1971. Over the decades, we raised two children — Michael and Claire — through layoffs, inflation, illnesses, and the everyday grind of working-class life. Richard was the kind of man who fixed everything: leaky roofs, broken cars, crying children at 2 a.m. He never complained. He never raised his voice. People in the neighborhood called him “Reliable Richard.”
But that 4 a.m. ritual haunted me.
At first, I thought it was stomach trouble.
Then I worried he was praying for something he couldn’t share. Later, darker thoughts crept in — maybe he was addicted to painkillers, or talking to another woman on a secret phone, or hiding gambling debts. But none of it fit. Richard drank only on special occasions, never smoked, and came home every night at the same time.
The real clues were physical.
He never wore short sleeves, even during the brutal Chicago summers when the humidity felt like breathing through wet wool. He changed clothes only in the dark or behind closed doors. During our most intimate moments, he insisted on total darkness. If I hugged him from behind without warning, his entire body would go rigid, as if my touch burned him.
