Daddy read to us from the Rubiyat, Kipling, Hiawatha, Evangeline and other poetry. The chilling irony of the Ballad of Reading Gaol filled me with a terrible fear, "For every man kills the thing that he most loves".  I pondered on it for years and observed how people loved each other.

The snippet of a poem:

"They've poisoned the wine on my table,
" They've poisoned the bread on my plate;
" Some with their love, God help me!
" And others with their hate."

...reminded me how destructive possessive love can be.  I saw our parents love freely and without demands, with utter trust.   They were my models, and a good thing, for neither Ed nor I could have tolerated possessive of demanding or selfish love.