Art, my husband died, Memorial was Sat. Mar 9, 2019. I could not speak of this until now.

My husband had some scattered good memories of his father before he was 3, but his Dad, a one room school teacher for 8 grades, had a nervous breakdown, in 1926. At home a new baby sister died of scarlet fever, and the family was quarantined. His Dad’s job was taken over by someone else, and there was no income.
At the end of the quarantine, NY State declared that his Dad had a nervous breakdown, and was mentally ill. He was put in Willard State Mental Institution.
His older son and daughter were taken by NY State authorities, and placed in homes, before foster care was organized. The daughter was placed out of state in in a strict religious home as a teen aged employee. The boy was in a neighbor’s home to work, not yet in his teens. Only the three-year-old was left in the quarantined home.
After the quarantine the Mother was given a low rent, rural house, a very low version of a welfare check, and weekly inspections of how she took care of Art, her son.
Prior to when his Dad was a teacher, his father had married his wife from Great Britain in 1911, when he was stationed there as a US Marine.
I know his Dad came home, but could not get a job. He only worked as a farm hand, for food or their charity. The family never got off of welfare.
But Art had good memories of his Dad helping him do well in school, learning more than was being taught. He was moved to 2nd grade the first year, then from 3rd to 4th the second year.
At a later time his father was again declared incompetent, by the welfare authorities, and hospitalized in Willard. When his father was released to go home again, Art was 12. His father had been given shock treatments. He was then truly incompetent.
He died in 1945, a few months after Art and I were married. The Army-Air Force flew Art home.   He had an auction of all belongings except personal to his mother and brought her to live with us.   An agreement plan was easily formed of sharing her time equally with us and his brother and sister, both married.
My description has blank spots in it, because my husband never told me this, he never spoke of it, but his mother shared it. Fortunately his mother and I truly loved each other.
Perhaps you can see, I could not write of it until now, if it was so hidden for my husband, yet shared to me.
At a time when Willard, the state hospital, still was in operation, a second cousin and his wife worked there, and checked his records. They told us that by then, in the 1950’s or late 40’s, he would have never even been hospitalized. He might have been put on Valium, at home.
Art had emotional scars, some things were unexpected triggers, and we were given his admonition, “and we will never speak of it again”, and he would not. I felt that his eventual loss of memory came of this, and with that loss, he became more natural, and less the image he held so fiercely all the years I knew him with that facade. More the man I loved, underneath it all. I hope he knows now.  I tried to relate to who he was underneath it all, and it became our foundation.