After I moved out of my parents' at 18, she was the only person who cared to come to Paris once a month to have dinner with me, and care about how I was doing after my suicide attempt at 19.
Every month we'd go to a restaurant for a different country.
She never went "oh come on now, I survived WW2, a camp, a religious conversion, a gambling husband, crippling debt, no eating, single motherhood and the death of my true love". Not once.
If she ever thought it she at least never let me see it.