There’s a soul-deep satisfaction that comes with giving yourself to someone, saying I’m yours. These hands, these toes, this body, this heart; they’re yours.
When I was in second grade, I read a picture book about a girl who refused to take a bath. She got stinkier and dirtier and at one point her parents heaped her with gifts, hoping desperately they’d convince her to get in the bath. The book gave me a stomach ache. I hated it.
I couldn’t think of anything more upsetting than someone not wanting a gift.