It is a hard thing not to love one’s children. It is not hard to resent them, to see them as miscreants or burdens, to think them selfish and base, to find their concupiscence by turns infuriating and repugnant. Neither is it hard to love them — it is the easiest thing in the world to see in one’s children a simplicity, purity, and goodness which draw up love from one’s depths as from a well. To resent or to love them is easy. Not to love them is hard.
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