Of course the widow didn’t spend every red cent of her husband’s earnings on building the apartment homes. But she came close.

Naturally, things were tight at first.

So she relied on her son to help stretch the ends. And he did. And that was a great comfort to her.

Not that she doubted him, for he was able and it was expected. But it was the way he did it, nobly, and with aplomb, that she especially appreciated.

Some mothers in her position worried constantly about their sons. Street gangs circled them like unscrupulous men circled her. Headlines blared the terrible things these boys did…and the terrible things that happened to them.

But not her son.

He was as steady as her resolve was hard. Together they made quite the team, her baking pies and taking in laundry, him handy with hammer, nails and paintbrush.

On the occasion when she detected resentment (a click of the tongue, the excessive straightening of a collar or cuff) she let it go.

He loved her. Of this she knew and never waivered.

It was only natural that he wanted her hands to be soft and her mind to be uncluttered. It was only natural for her to trust him. And for him to trust her. When he turned over his earnings, she never inquired; they always exceeded her calculations.

And so when he turned up for dinner one evening in a new shirttail and trousers–with his shoes resoled, no less–she didn’t inquire about that either.

But, from then on, she never bought him another thing. No, not even a present for his birthday. Or Christmas.

She gave him money instead.