“Your preferences have value,” he told me. “The things we love make us who we are. You are allowed to want things. Ask for whatever you want, and I will do my best to provide it for you.” I heard the words he said. They made sense as verbal sentences. I still didn’t understand. “But why? Preferences just make us picky,” I said with a frown, repeating the words that my father had recited to me every time I complained about anything throughout my childhood. He had no time or patience for whining from multiple children and no desire to be embarrassed in front of courtiers by childish complaints.
