There’s an interesting line between liking and loving something or someone. Nancy Mairs kind of discusses this in her essay about Ron, her son. Ron wasn’t her biological son and Mairs doesn’t seem like she ever really wanted him in her life to raise as a child but she kind of stumbled into the situation and felt too bad to get out of it. There’s a line where she states “George and I were faced with sole and full responsibility for a troubled fifteen-year-old in whose upbringing we had had no hand, whose values and attitudes were alien to us, whom, all in all, we could love all right but didn’t much like.” I really found this to be an interesting concept but reflecting on it, I understood. For example, in my family, I automatically love my parents and my brothers and sisters but no one ever told me that I had to like them too. The only reason I love them in the first place is because they are family. I could really clash with my siblings and dislike who they are as people but to say that I love AND like them at the same time is a whole other level of feeling of love towards them. Often I wonder, if my sister weren’t my sister but just another girl my age at school, would we be friends? Would I still like her? A lot of times, I would like to think so, but there’s really no way of ever knowing for sure.
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