Mrs. Fidget died a few months ago

Every virtue is corruptible, in fact, the more highly esteemed the virtue, the greater the corruption, if and when it goes bad. We should never set up any single virtue as the ultimate virtue, the thing to do at all costs. 

All these perversions of Affection are mainly connected with Affection as a Need-love. But Affection as a Gift-love has its perversions, too. I am thinking of Mrs. Fidget, who died a few months ago. It is really astonishing how her family have brightened up. The drawn look has gone from her husband's face; he begins to be able to laugh. The younger boy, whom I had always thought an embittered, peevish little creature, turns out to be quite human. The elder, who was hardly ever at home except when he was in bed, is nearly always there now & has begun to reorganise the garden. The girl, who was always supposed to be "delicate" (though I never found out what exactly the trouble was), now has the riding lessons which were once out of the question, dances all night, & plays any amount of tennis. Even the dog who was never allowed out except on a lead is now a well-known member of the Lamp-post Club in their road. Mrs. Fidget very often said that she lived for her family. And it was not untrue. Everyone in the neighbourhood knew it. "She lives for her family," they said; "what a wife & mother!" She did all the washing; true, she did it badly, & they could have afforded to send it out to a laundry, & they frequently begged her not to do it. But she did. There was always a hot lunch for anyone who was at home & always a hot meal at night (even in midsummer). They implored her not to provide this. They protested almost with tears in their eyes (& with truth) that they liked cold meals. It made no difference. She was living for her family. She always sat up to "welcome" you home if you were out late at night; 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning, it made no odds; you would always find the frail, pale, weary face awaiting you, like a silent accusation. Which meant of course that you couldn't with, any decency go out very often. She was always making things too; being in her own estimation (I'm no judge myself) an excellent amateur dressmaker & a great knitter. And of course, unless you were a heartless brute, you had to wear the things. (The Vicar tells me that, since her death, the contributions of that family alone to "sales of work" outweigh those of all his other parishioners put together. ) And then her care for their health! She bore the whole burden of that daughter's "delicacy" alone. The Doctor an old friend, & it was not being done on National Health was never allowed to discuss matters with his patient. After the briefest examination of her, he was taken into another room by the mother. The girl was to have no worries, no responsibility for her own health. Only loving care; caresses, special foods, horrible tonic wines, & breakfast in bed. For Mrs. Fidget, as she so often said, would "work her fingers to the bone" for her family. They couldn't stop her. Nor could they being decent people quite sit still & watch her do it. They had to help. Indeed they were always having to help. That is, they did things for her to help her to do things for them which they didn't want done. As for the dear dog, it was to her, she said, "Just like one of the children." It was in fact, as like one of them as she could make it. But since it had no scruples it got on rather better than they, & though vetted, dieted & guarded within an inch of its life, contrived sometimes to reach the dustbin or the dog next door. The Vicar says Mrs. Fidget is now at rest. Let us hope she is. What's quite certain is that her family are.
-- C S Lewis in The Four Loves