Page 157 of The Love Operation

“It’s been a lot today,” I say. “Right now, I think we all just need rest. I’ll check on Mom and Dad tomorrow, and the three of us can talk again then.”

Maggie nods—just barely—but the panic has dulled. We have a plan. That’s all she needed.

I glance at Charles. He reads my signal and comes and wraps his arm around his wife.

I walk them to their cars, the air cooling around us, headlights blinking on.

I assume Benedict will leave, too, but he says, “I’ll let them out, then pull back in so we can say good night.”

I thought we already had.

Still, I nod because something in the way he says it makes me curious. Then I stand on the porch with Tad Cooper, watching the cars maneuver out of the driveway, taillights disappearing down the street.

I feel a pull in my chest when Benedict jogs up the stairs and joins me.

“Well,” I say, “that was unexpected.”

“Yeah,” he says. “But now I get it.”

“Hmm?”

He looks at me. “Now I see why you are the way you are.”

I blink.

“You don’t even realize, do you?” he says, quiet but steady. “The moment you saw them, you changed. You stepped up. Took charge. You became Dr. Wren.”

I blink some more, feeling caught in a way I can’t quite name.

“They didn’t ask how you were. Not once. And even though they were clearly worried about you . . . it was more about them needing you to be okay. To be you.”

He lets the silence stretch before continuing. “I know what it’s like, having people depend on you. But Cord . . . you shoved your own pain aside the second they looked at you.”

My throat tightens. I don’t know how to answer. So I don’t.

“I need to put Tad Cooper inside,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

I slip into the house, turn on the lights, and return Tad Cooper to his cage, my hands moving on autopilot.

I just figured out my core issue, and the first time it mattered, I snapped right back into old habits. I’m not okay, but I played the part anyway. Like always.

I grab us glasses of water and step back onto the porch. Benedict’s eyes are soft as I hand him a glass.

“You know,” I say, “I didn’t even realize that’s what I was doing.”

“Why would you? It’s ingrained.”

“Yeah. It’s what I’m good at. I’ve always had a lot of responsibility—and I’ve always liked it. I’ve always taken pride in being able.”

“But you do know,” he says, “you don’t have to earn being cared for, right?”

I freeze.

“You don’t have to be the hero. Your feelings are valid too.”

A lump rises in my throat.

“If you walked away from medicine tomorrow, you’d still be worthy,” he continues. “Still the most magnetic, relentless, brilliant person I know.” He takes a step closer—not much, but enough that the porch feels smaller. “And the people who love you—really love you—they don’t love you because of the things you carry. They love you in spite of them.”