My mother's middle sister was the coquette and flirt of the family. Lived her life merrily till about 38 or so, then looked to marry. She eventually snared a man that the rest of the family considered far inferior to her, with no decent job, not intellectual, too old for her etc. But hey, she was used goods, and at least she managed to get someone, they thought.

This man proved the best husband anyone could wish for. Treated her like a queen, accepted her moods and put-downs and always put himself last. And when she was struck by Alzheimers in later life, he looked after her personally for 10 years, the last 6 of which she was a vegetable that could not move, feed herself, speak, think or show gratitude. And when the rest of the family (by now recognising his true worth) were urging him to think of himself, all he would say was:

"But I do it because I love her."

Not out of a sense of duty or obligation, not for any other reason.

Uncle Euripides is my hero.