She was grieving.

She had just successfully defended her home and her dignity against a serious and calculated attack, had out-thought and out-maneuvered the people who came for her, and had won completely.

And standing on the porch watching the taillights disappear, she was mourning — not the house, which she had saved, but the little boy with the toy hammer, who had grown into the man in the vanishing car, and who was gone, and had perhaps been gone for a very long time.

I did not say anything.