The talk of her always brought out the blush in him. Any small sentence about her or even a instance about her and he would blush pink. It was unnatural for any man, particularly any married man to blush when talked about his wife. But here was a man, in all his age, elegance and profession, who inspite of the life he lived, who would blush always.
A very few understood him. And a very few knew him. He appeared a loving husband to all until they knew what truth he had to live with. When they learnt that he was unmarried widower, some thought he was a fool, some thought he was a hopeless romantic, some men changed their ways having learnt what they were blessed with and some women wished they too had a husband so devoted; not able to understand that such a devotion needed particularly great qualities in them too.
It wasn't the only the pain he endured, that they respected, it was the life in his spirit that lived, the happy life in the pain that he had to live with, the pinnacle of hope with which he lived, even where there was none. Seeing him happy, living his life with all the pain and the relief, the misery and the excitement, that was what made him stand out.
He never gave anyone the chance to express their pity for him, no one ever knew what he lost. No one ever knew what he had to live with. No one knew what he was left with.