All Love Is Conditional
And here’s why that’s a good thing.
We’re supposed to tell the truth
Here, at least, if not in real life. If what you’re writing isn’t true — and that includes fiction — why write it at all? There’s plenty of bullshit to go around. We don’t need to add to the pile.
We’re supposed to bare our souls. To show both scars and pimples, to let each other know that we’re not alone. That we’ve all taken knocks. That our hearts are dinged and dented like hockey masks, bolted and riveted back into some semblance of the shape they once had. And we’re still here.
But not every story is mine to tell. There are people still walking this world that I’ve already hurt enough. Besides, in this case, the story isn’t that important. It’s the ending that matters.
The ending is this: there is no such thing as unconditional love. All love has conditions. The mothers of serial killers weep as their sadistic sons fall to potassium chloride or two thousand volts of incandescent hell, but we call them fools.
The world is full of mothers who never loved their offspring. Even sadder, it’s full of those who once loved their kids and then lost that love, its tucked claws and crocodile tail slipping carelessly from their grasp. For every dog that wastes away beside…
