I once heard a story that remains vivid in memory. An evening familial conversation, steeped in affection, was recounted.
Upon returning home, my father remarked, "Despite your mother's frequent displays of anger, she genuinely loves you."
Perplexed, I questioned the paradox: if my mother truly loves me, why does she chastise me so frequently? I found myself in a state of confusion, contemplating whether my reluctance to express anger towards my parents indicated a lack of love on my part.
Summoning the courage to ask, I inquired, "Is it a prerequisite to become upset when one loves, Father?"
Amused, my father chuckled at my inquiry, dismissing it as if my question were nonsensical. "Anger is a manifestation of concern. When you grow older, you will comprehend."
While I may grasp the concept, my inner resolve resists embracing anger as an expression of love. Each instance of my mother's scolding only served to diminish my sense of self with each passing day.
