She had called it devotion.

She had watched her husband grow colder and her mother-in-law grow crueler and her own edges grow softer and quieter, and she had understood all of it as the price of love — the ordinary sacrifices a good wife makes, the small daily swallowing of pride that holds a family together.

She had been proud of her endurance.

She had thought it was the truest thing about her.

Standing at that window, she finally understood the difference between the two.

Devotion is something you give to a person who receives it.