He could not watch his daughter grow up; he made sure some other father would watch his.

He gave away, deliberately, the exact thing he was dying for want of, to people he would never meet, and he did it without bitterness, without the terrible understandable resentment of a man handing others the gift he himself was being denied.

That is a generosity I am not sure I could manage.

If I were dying for lack of time, I do not know that I could bear to think about all the time other people would get to keep, let alone actively work to give them more of it.

The natural motion of a grieving heart is inward, toward its own loss, toward the unfairness of it.

Mark’s moved outward.