“It’s my job, as your mother, to make sure you grow up into a good man who has a loving place in his heart for all living creatures,” I used to tell him when he was small. “It doesn’t make me feel good to hear you have hatred in your heart for anybody.” He’d pour out his reasons, his explanations, his ideas. “I understand exactly what you’re saying,” I’d say. “I understand you have strong feelings, and I can see why. You’re entitled to have your feelings. Your heart belongs to you. Nobody else gets to decide who lives inside your heart. You choose who you want to love.” It’s amazing how simple
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