My wife cries at 11pm every night

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/IamHereNowAtLeast on 2024-11-18 01:03:39+00:00.

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The only word that I can think of that describes how I feel, inadequate.

I’ve always wanted to do more for my wife. But she’s always assured me over and over that things are fine and that she just needs the time and space to process things. 

Yet night after night, the routine has been the same.

Just before 11 p.m., as if driven by some unseen force, Ellen rises, quietly excuses herself, and disappears into the bathroom. The door clicks shut, and the locking of the door is followed by muffled sounds of her crying—not super loud, but loud enough to be the only sound I hear once she starts.

I often find myself thinking about our life together. 

When did this start? Did I do something? Did I miss something when we first started dating?

I tend to then replay our entire relationship in my head, looking for signs I might have missed, while I wait for her to come out of the bathroom.

We met during our junior year of college.

Our first run-in was at one of those cliché frat parties, an event called Jerseys & Jorts. And as you guessed it, every guy and girl there was sporting some sort of sports jersey and a pair of cut off jeans. 

Our eyes met while we were both waiting in an obnoxiously loud line for a drink. She was stunning. Then, after I probably stared a little too long, she said hello and introduced herself.

“Ellen Callas.”

She complimented my Mutombo Nuggets jersey, an old vintage jersey imbued with a rainbow of vibrant colors. I complimented her retro Robinson USA jersey, a bonafide classic. She had borrowed it from her roommate.

A couple minutes into our conversation, I realized she didn’t know who either Dikembe Mutombo or David Robinson were. Then we laughed at everyone in jean shorts, and how everyone would secretly look forward to somehow coming up with a new excuse or themed party where they could sport their jean shorts again.

“Why can’t people just admit they like wearing jean shorts?” 

We continued poking fun at Greek life at schools, and somehow ended up talking about our classes and our majors, then our roommates. It felt like we talked the entire night.

I was in love.

We followed each other on Instagram. It took me three weeks of barraging her with memes, which she often hearted, before she responded with a fateful message.

DO YOU WANT TO GET COFFEE WITH ME?

I thought I was dreaming. 

One morning later that week, we were in line at Picasso’s Coffee. I was babbling about how much I love cold brew. When we were finally up, she ordered tea… 

I was so caught off guard by her order, I somehow ended up ordering a berry blast smoothie. A thought had infiltrated my mind, I guess… What if she didn’t like coffee drinkers? 

When we finally sat down with our drinks, she laughed and pointed out that neither of us got a coffee, and that maybe it was a sign we would have to go again sometime soon. 

I officially asked Ellen to be my girlfriend at the art museum one morning while we were finally sipping coffees. We were standing opposite Van Gogh’s painting, The Ravine. It was her favorite painting in the museum. She loved talking about it.

“Not only is it one of his masterpieces, but underneath, there’s a totally different painting, maybe another masterpiece. He struggled to pick which image he wanted to present to the viewer.”

I loved the way she looked at that painting. She’s always been so much wiser than me.

Then time flew by. 

At times, the years feel like a single memory.

Ellen and I have been married three years, and we have a beautiful eight-month-old daughter named Zoe. I like to think we’re the picture of a happy family—weekend trips to the park, family dinners, and bedtime stories every night. 

Ellen has been everything I ever wanted in a partner: loving, supportive, and devoted to our family. I think we’ve been in love since our first "coffee" date, and having Zoe has only strengthened our relationship.

But this peculiar trait of hers has always weighed on me, and it’s something I still, after everything, can’t make sense of. Every night at 11 p.m, Ellen is in a locked bathroom and crying.

When she returns, her eyes are red and puffy, but she smiles and insists everything is fine.

The truth is I can’t quite remember exactly when it started, but I’m almost sure I first noticed it a couple weeks after we moved into the new house. Looking back, maybe it did start around then.

It was a lot of change quickly.

In one year, we got engaged and then married. I lost my job and it took longer to find a new one than we expected. Ellen lost her mom to breast cancer. And then we found out we had a baby on the way.

I figured this was Ellen’s way of coping. Grief, stress, enormous change. I tried to give her space, hoping she’d tell me when she was ready. 

“Ellen, are you okay?” I asked her as she slowly climbed into bed one night.

The crying had been more intense than usual. She looked as if she was hiding physical pain. She responded with a gentle smile, her eyes still glistening from the remnants of tears she hadn’t fully wiped away. 

"I’m okay, really. Just… thinking about things," she finally said.

“What kind of things?” I pressed gently.

She waved it off, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, and changed the subject. I let it drop, thinking it was just a rough patch. We all have those, right?

But as time went on, I realized it wasn’t just a phase. 

It was something much deeper, something that didn’t fade.

Her 11 p.m. ritual continued.

No matter where we were—on vacation, at a friend’s house, even out at dinner on a date night —at 11 p.m., she’d find a bathroom, go in alone, and cry.

One day, I hoped that Ellen would bring it up to me in bed. That one topic that your partner finally feels safe enough to share with you just as you are both about to doze off.

Some strong mixture of sleepy comfort and courage.

I was ready for any explanation. But I realize now I’ll never know.  

I’m sorry, I read back what I’ve written and haven’t made it clear. I guess in some ways, Ellen is still here with Zoe and me. 

We lost Ellen in a car accident recently.

On July 5th, just before dawn, Ellen got up early one morning to go meet her dad at the harbor for a mile swim. It was a tradition of theirs, always the morning after the 4th. They joked that their time in the water calmed down the fish, who were spooked by all of the fireworks from the night before.

But she never made it to the pier. 

She was hit by a drunk driver who was just coming home from the bars.

So it’s me and Zoe now. And our families. 

My parents have been helping out as much as they can, though they both still work. 

Ellen’s dad tried his best for a while.

But I think the grief of losing both his wife and daughter was too much. Just a few weeks after Ellen’s funeral, he abruptly said he needed to go to Greece to visit family. I honestly didn’t even know they had family in Greece. Ellen nor anyone in her family ever mentioned them.

I look back now and wish I had asked Ellen’s dad about it after I first noticed.

Had they ever noticed it when Ellen lived at home?

Or maybe I should have pushed further with Ellen herself, to get an answer. I could have mentioned therapy. I could have gone with her and we could have figured it out together.

But now I find myself in the same position. Unable to help someone I love.

The night Ellen died, after the hospital, after sitting for hours in that cold, fluorescent waiting room, I finally came home with Zoe. My mom and dad stayed over with us.

Just a baby. Too young to understand what had happened. 

But that night, only more questions came.

When I put Zoe to bed, she started crying. It was loud and heart-wrenching, nothing like the soft cries of a sleepy baby. I held her, soothing her as best I could until she finally calmed down.

It wasn’t until after she’d fallen asleep in my arms that I glanced at the clock. It was just a few minutes after 11 p.m. My stomach dropped.

I hoped it was maybe just a coincidence.

Though as the days and nights passed, it was clear...

Every night at 11 p.m. on the dot, Zoe cries a horrible cry. Her body writhes, as if she's in some great pain. I can’t do anything for her. I hold her tightly in my arms and just let her cry out. 

Sometimes, when Zoe starts crying, the room seems to grow colder, like a sudden drop in temperature that chills my skin, my bones. The air itself feels heavy, as if something unseen is pressing down on us. It's not like this every time.

Sometimes it seems to do the opposite. Like the room gets warmer, lighter.

I know I probably sound crazy.

It's been like this longer than I'd ever care to admit. I just haven't known what to do.

Feeling hopeless, I finally confided in my parents about Zoe’s nightly crying.

At first, they thought I was just overwhelmed with grief, imagining things. In their defense, I couldn’t bring myself to explain that Ellen did the same thing. It’s like I was embarrassed to admit it. Not embarrassed of Ellen, but embarrassed I didn’t do more to help.

My parents did say no matter what was going on, I should get Zoe looked at it if she was crying terribly all the time. I first took her to our regular pediatrician.  

Dr. Connelly performed a comprehensive physical exam, checking Zoe’s vitals, growth metrics, and reflexes, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary. 

After a thorough discussion of her symptoms, Dr. Connelly suggested we rule out any unde...

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