“A mother never dies,” the man said to me. “A mother never dies.”

His name is John. We met today on the subway, five days before mother’s day. I was taking the C train uptown, and luckily the stifling hot, crowded train partially emptied out at 42nd Street. The seats were still packed, but you didn’t have to hug yourself tight while you clutched the rail.

Before I knew his name, John offered me his seat. I used to be the kind of fearful feminist who thought turning down any help was a good thing. Now I remain a proud feminist, but I’ve learned enough about men to accept true chivalry for what it is: a meaningful ritual that can be examined, and refused, but gently. So I told him that I preferred to stand, not because I didn’t want to be beholden to him, but because I actually like to stand. I even have a standing desk.

John was a little worn around the edges… fifty-something, wearing the uniform of a working man’s government agency. He was a thin man with large liquid eyes that were exaggerated by the thickness of his glasses.