Page 164 of The Love Operation

I will remember this—her. And I will remember for her.

When I finally lift my head, my eyes connect with my dad’s. He’s been here the whole time, taking this in too—quiet, arms loosely crossed, eyes glassy.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. He gives me a look only a father can give his daughter in a moment like this: part understanding, part heartbreak, part helplessness—all love.

I nod. He nods back.

That’s enough.

Our hearts break together.

“Come here, Luca,” Mom says softly.

Seconds later, his arms surround us both. And what passes between us in those quiet minutes is bigger than anything we could have said out loud.

Eventually, Mom pulls back and exhales. “Okay. That’s enough of this. I’m starting to feel like a lab specimen.”

We pull apart, and I laugh. The tension in the room gives just a little.

“Now, tell us what’s going on with you.”

I feel a sharp pang in my chest. Because this conversation is one I’ve already had with her. Or some version of her. That version who was here but not. And I know it will happen more. That’s what she meant when she said, I’ll look like I’m still here, but you’ll know that I’m gone.

I swallow hard and give them the CliffsNotes version of the past few weeks—of Isaac, of Benedict, of everything unraveling and rearranging itself. I don’t mention the memories this time.

“And you’ve decided to be with Isaac?” Mom asks gently.

I blink. I’m pretty sure I just said that.

“You’re sure he’s the right person for you?”

I’m surprised by the irritation that flares in me. I don’t even know where it comes from.

“Right now, I feel like it doesn’t matter which one I choose,” I say. “They’re both great guys. Two wildly different lives. So how do I pick when I can’t see the future? I can’t know what’s coming. Why waste time regretting the choice I didn’t make?”

Mom tilts her head at me, gently skeptical, but it’s Dad who speaks.

“When I met your mom,” he says, “I saw our future. I’m not clairvoyant, so not all of it—but the parts that mattered. I knew we’d build something solid, something good, because I knew who she was. And I knew there wasn’t a single version of my life where choosing her wouldn’t be the best thing I ever did. The job, the house, the chaos we couldn’t predict—none of that changed what I knew. She was the constant.”

He leans forward, eyes steady.

“You’ve always trusted your head, and there’s validity in that. But this isn’t about data, Cordelia, or prediction. It’s about knowing, deep down, who you want to walk beside when everything else changes. So give your heart a chance to get a word in too.”

He pauses, letting his words settle between us, then adds, “I’m not saying your choice is wrong. That’s yours to make. But I watched you as you talked, and I saw how your face changed when you talked about each of them. And those differences . . . they’re worth paying attention to.”

I want to ask him what he saw, but if I do what he suggested, the answer feels like it’s already there.

Mom’s eyebrows lift as she looks at him with admiration. “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” she says. “Actually, I’m impressed.”

“Well,” Dad says, “I was thinking about using that quote we found from the Harry Potter series. You know, the one where Dumbledore tells Harry not to get lost in his dreams and forget to live? So, that, but when he says Harry, hear Cordelia, of course.”

They exchange a look—the kind that says everything without words. The kind that still surprises them, even now.

“I love you both,” I say, rising to my feet. “But I think I should go. I’m having dinner with Isaac.”

I watch their faces. For half a second, I think I catch a flicker of disappointment—but it’s gone too fast to truly name.

They wish me well.