Love is a hell of a thing. People romanticize it, paint it in soft colors, drape it in poetry, sing about it until their throats go raw. But love—real love—well, most of the time it’s just a fancy way of saying I want something from you.
A young man sits there, stuffing his face with a fish, tearing into the flesh, letting the juices drip down his chin. Some old man asks him, Why are you eating that fish?
“Because I love fish,” the kid says.
Love it? the old man laughs. You loved it so much you yanked it out of the water, killed it, and boiled it? That’s love? No, kid, you love yourself. The fish just tastes good.
And that’s how it is, isn’t it? We call it love when really, it’s just need wrapped in sweet words. We don’t love the fish, we love how it makes us feel. We don’t love the woman, we love what she does for us. We don’t love the man, we love the idea of being taken care of.
A young couple falls in love. The guy thinks she’s beautiful, she makes him feel good, makes him laugh, keeps him warm at night. The girl thinks he’s strong, he makes her feel safe, he pays for dinner. And they call it love.
But what happens when she loses her beauty? When the waistline thickens, when the smooth skin folds, when the years carve lines into her face? What happens when he loses his job? When the big house shrinks, when the security turns into scrambling to pay bills?
They look at each other then, and suddenly, love doesn’t seem like love anymore.
Because what they really loved wasn’t the person. It was what that person gave them.
Call it fish love.
A marriage counselor once asked a husband and wife to write five things they loved about each other. The husband wrote, She’s beautiful. She makes me happy. I feel alive around her. The wife wrote, He makes me feel safe. He’s a great provider. He makes me laugh.
The counselor smiled. That’s conditional love, he said. You don’t love each other. You love the way the other person makes you feel. When she’s not beautiful anymore, when he’s no longer rich, what then?
That’s the gamble, isn’t it? Most people go into marriage making a deal they don’t even know they’re making. As long as you stay the way I like, as long as you keep giving me what I need, I’ll love you. But the second those conditions aren’t met, the love dries up faster than a cheap bottle of whiskey at an Irish wake.
And yet, we have this thing—this one pure thing—where we love without condition. Our children. We want to give them everything. We forgive them even when they disappoint us. We hold them close even when they’ve driven us to the edge of madness.
That kind of love—the love that gives without expectation—that’s rare. That’s the good stuff.
But here’s the kicker: most of us don’t get that kind of love from our partners. We get fish love. And we give fish love right back.
So the question is—can we ever love someone unconditionally? Like we do our kids? Can we love without expecting? Without needing? Without taking?
Maybe.
But then, what would we call it?
Because it sure as hell wouldn’t be the kind of love most people are talking about.
