He'd known this was going to be hard, that getting his wife to let everything she'd been bottling up out would be a struggle. She didn't seem to see the flaw in her own logic and a small, sad smile crossed his face. "Yes, we did," he agreed, "but so did you. You don't have to be the only one mourning him alone."
And then, finally, she admitted what was weighing on her mind - what he'd known was weighing on her mind, and was why he'd called her for this walk. "My love, it's not your fault," he murmured, pulling her close. "You tried your best and sometimes that's all we can do. It's more my fault; I should have been there to help him. Had I been, he might not have gotten so hurt. But we can't change the past; we can only grieve and learn and hold together to move forward."
Nash doubted his words would be enough to sooth her guilt; they hadn't been enough for him, when she'd been helping him with his own traumas. Even so, he would continue to say it. She was not the one to kill him, and it wasn't her fault he died.