In the end, we love her again, but in a deeper way: we love her even though we have, by way of Chekhov’s guidance, been urged to take her fully into account. We love her even though we see all of her. Maybe we didn’t know we could do that, love a person this deeply flawed, someone who is, arguably, doing harm (to a kid, no less), but now we know that we can, at least for a little while. And maybe “love” isn’t quite the right word. We don’t approve of her, necessarily, but we know her. We’ve known her in all kinds of weather, we might say.
