He used to go back, take her hand, and try to help her over rough places while he still wore dresses.

Straight on, he had been like that; always seeing when there was too much work and trying to shield her; always knowing when a pain was coming and fighting to head it off; always remembering the things the others forgot, going to her last at night, and his face against hers on her pillow the first in the morning, to learn how she was before he left the house.

If you were the mother of a man like that, how would you like to hear him call some one else mother, and have the word slip from his tongue so slick you could see he didn't even realize that he had used it?
The answer would be, if you were honest, that you wouldn't have liked it any more than she did.

She knew he had to go.

She wanted him to be happy.