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“If you loved me, you’d serve me French-fries instead of all these vegetables.”

“If you loved me, you’d let me have ice-cream every evening.”

“If you loved me, you’d carry me everywhere instead of making me walk.”

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t expect me to tidy up my mess.”

“If you loved me, you’d understand I’m always criticizing you for your own good.”

“If you loved me, you’d stop communicating with your female friends.”

“If you loved me, you’d throw away all your mementoes from before when you knew me.”

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t mind me blaming you when I’m unhappy.”

“If you loved me, you’d pour me a couple of stiff drinks every evening to help me unwind.”

“If you loved me, you’d listen to all my complaints for as long as I want.”

“If you loved me, you’d fix things for me so my life could be easier.”

Many years ago, a five-year-old boy clung to the branch of a tree, his feet less than an inch above the soft grass. He screamed for someone to help him. My friend Bryan and I exchanged a glance and remained where we were. The boy’s mother looked at us. “Why aren’t you helping him?” she asked.

“We are,” we answered in unison.

It’s often very difficult for us to see where real love resides.

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