Page 151 of The Love Operation

He stands when he sees me. (Benedict, not Tad Cooper—he’s curled in his carrier, enjoying this house as much as I have.) “Hey.”

“Hey,” I say. “That bath was amazing. Thank you again.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he says. “I made these.” He gestures to two plates of grilled cheese and chips, each paired with a bowl of tomato soup. Everything’s neatly arranged on the coffee table. “It’s a little early for dinner, so if you’re not hungry . . .”

“It smells amazing, but . . .” I pat my stomach. “I don’t think I can eat right now.” I feel terrible saying that, especially after all the trouble he went to, but better to say it than for him to find out later when I throw up on his lovely floors.

He nods without offense. “Then let me get these out of the way.”

He balances the plates effortlessly and disappears into the kitchen while I linger in the center of the room, gazing up at the warm wood beams above.

“I’m really sorry you went to all that trouble,” I call out.

“Don’t be,” he says, returning. “I’d do it again just to make sure you had what you needed.”

His eyes catch mine, and the sincerity in them gives me something to latch on to.

“That’s how you always were,” I say quietly.

He smiles. We each sink into one of the plush cream chairs carved from dark walnut, the arms etched with tiny woodland scenes: a raccoon beneath a tree, a fox curled near a stream, and others. The wood is smooth. I run my fingers along the grain.

“These are gorgeous,” I say. “They feel like heirlooms.”

“My dad built them years ago,” he says. “I refinished them recently. New stain, new upholstery, reinforced the joinery.”

“All his work is like this?”

He nods. “Everything he makes is built to last.”

“And what about you?” I point to the vaulted beams above us. “Did you do this?”

“Yeah. This place was a dump. I gutted it, knocked out walls, added as much glass as I could. I like natural light.”

I glance around again—at the structure, the finishes, the atmosphere. Every inch of it feels intentional. Built, not just decorated. Cared for. My eyes snag on his forearms, on the defined muscles that are almost as solid as the wood underneath them.

I let my fingers trace the raccoon again, and then I take a deep breath. “My mom has Alzheimer’s,” I say. The words come out flat. Not because they don’t matter, but because I haven’t let myself fully believe them yet. “That’s why you found me crying in the driveway.”

Benedict’s jaw goes slack. “Cord . . . I’m so sorry.”

“I went to see her this morning,” I say. “I needed to talk. I haven’t really been speaking with my parents much lately, but today . . . I needed my mom. And she was there. Fully herself. She listened to everything, the whole mess.” I pause. “Then she asked me to go inside and make coffee.” I rub my hands on my thighs. “When I came back, she didn’t remember I’d ever been there.”

His brows pull together. “You didn’t know before today?”

I shake my head and look at the floor. “They didn’t tell me or my siblings. But they specifically didn’t want to tell me because I’m the fixer. They thought I’d turn her into a project. That I’d research specialists, demand second opinions, create a whole treatment plan before she was ready.”

He pauses, and his face tinges red. “Would you have?”

I finally meet his gaze. “Yes. Probably.”

We sit with that.

“I drove home because I didn’t know what else to do,” I say. “Because I don’t know how to just . . . be. I only know how to help. And if I can’t help, I don’t know what role I play. Not as a daughter. Not as . . . anything.” My voice tightens. “How do I forgive them for not telling me a thing like this?”

“Sometimes,” he says gently, “it’s hard to tell people things when you already know how they’ll react, and you can’t carry the weight of that reaction on top of the thing itself.”

I look at him sharply. “You sound like you don’t blame them for not telling me.”

His mouth flattens into a line. “I’m just saying . . . they probably had their reasons. Just like you have yours for doing what you do.”