Maternal Guilt
Arthur always knew when Molly was going to break. Loving someone, both passionately and quietly, will teach you that, and he had always been able to read her much easier than any Muggle battery.
She never did in front of the children. Carefully, calmly, she kept it in even while thundering at the boys or getting into a screaming match with Ginny. She made dinner angrily, running on her righteous indignation all day. It was only when she wearily climbed into bed and pulled the blanket over her head that any sign showed. And she cried.
Molly Weasley had perfected crying at night so her children would never hear; she maintained that she needed to keep stable, "especially in these uncertain times". Her sobs were quiet and muffled, usually into Arthur's chest - the safest place he could keep her. Her tears were thick and full of guilt - guilt, he thought, that was unnecessary, considering how much of it he considered his fault.
The worst was when someone - usually Ron, who bless him lacked any inkling of tact but was honest to a fault - complained of hand-me-downs. "It's not fair!" wailed a small little boy, soon to be a big little boy, soon to be a teenager, not quite a man. "I always get someone else's stuff! Why can't I have my own?"
And after those fights, during those nights, Molly would cry the hardest. "Should I do more?" she asked Arthur, who never could say the right thing. "What can I do? Why am I letting them down?"
So she worked harder and harder, trying to keep them in line, trying to keep them happy, and not always managing either.
Arthur still couldn't answer, but sometimes wished that she didn't cry so quietly. Maybe she needed to be heard.