My husband of 39 years always kept a locked cupboard in it – after his death, I paid a locksmith to open it, and I wish I hadn't.

I handed him the box. Inside were the baseball glove, the baseballs, the newspaper clippings, and the letters from the prison.

"They belong to you," I told him. "They belonged to your father. Your uncle kept these things all these years because he refused to let your father be forgotten. He loved his brother, even when he couldn't say it out loud. You should have them."

He picked up the box, his fingers tracing the worn leather of the glove. "Thank you."

I handed him the box.

"Don't thank me," I replied. "Thank your uncle. He did most of the work."

When I got home that evening, the hallway no longer seemed narrow or dark.

I stopped in front of the cupboard.

The door was still open.

For 39 years, I had walked past that locked door without asking myself the difficult questions. I had convinced myself that it was a form of trust.

"He did most of the work."

Perhaps in fact, it was just the fear of discovering that the man I loved was not who I thought he was.

I never locked that door again. Not because I didn't believe in having a private life, but because I understood that silence and shame are not necessarily the same thing.

My Thomas was an honorable man who took care of his family, even when he thought he couldn't do so openly.

I wish he had told me the truth while he was still alive, but the least I can do for him now is to honor the family he left behind.

Silence and shame are not necessarily the same thing.

If this happened to you, what would you do? We'd love to hear your thoughts in the Facebook comments.