Page 12 of The Love Operation

Dad does a salsa hip twist. “We just got a sponsorship!”

“Is this some kind of midlife crisis?” I direct this question to my mom, who seems the more reasonable adult here. “Do Maggie and Everett know about this?”

“Everett helped shoot that video you just watched.”

I roll my eyes. Of course he did. My younger brother has been chasing likes since puberty. As a brand consultant, he essentially gets paid to write adjectives for things no one needs. I used to think Everett was a wild card, and I never understood why our parents gave him such freedom. I guess they were more on board than I thought.

I stare at my parents, a weird sensation settling under my skin. This isn’t who they are.

The Mother: Dr. Wilhelmina Wren. Sixty-five years old. Once a highly respected internal medicine provider. Now, apparently, a TikTok sensation.

Chief identifying characteristics: A powerhouse. The wind beneath this family’s wings. Possesses determination that bulldozes through anyone’s negativity and any obstacle. President of the National Coalition of 100 Black Women, Inc. (NCBW), a nonprofit that promotes gender equity in health, education, and economic empowerment. Compassionate. Empathetic. History expert. Favorite pastime: reading medical journals. Never sleeps.

Physical exam: Medium-height, medium-build Black female. A classic beauty. Short black curls streaked through with gray. Sharp hazel eyes that can diagnose a disease within seconds. Always dressed to impress with a fresh manicure and pedicure and flawless makeup.

Impression: Brillant. Stubborn. Always right. The woman I aspire to be like. Part of a dynamic duo: #CoupleGoals (until tonight).

The Father: Dr. Lucas “Luca” Wren. Sixty-six-year-old hand surgeon. Once revered in the medical world. Now . . . TikTok travesty.

Chief Identifying Characteristics: Cool under pressure. Modeled to pay for medical school. Avid bird-watcher. (Interrupt his birding at your own peril.) Would do anything for his family. Loves dad jokes (unfortunately). Enjoys cooking.

Physical exam: Tall, broad-shouldered White male. Bluish-gray eyes. Effortlessly charming. Still model-handsome. Salt-and-pepper hair that’s always neat and tidy. Everyday uniform: black slacks, white button-down. Will be buried in his TAG Heuer Monaco “wrist timepiece.”

Impression: Highly competent but doesn’t sweat the small stuff. Loyal. Unflappable.

My shoulders slump. I’m too tired for this. “I’m confused. Why are you guys shooting TikTok videos?”

Before they can answer, my eyes drift to the library to the left of the entryway. It’s been rearranged.

I head in, a sick thud landing in my gut when I see the shelves have been cleared. “Where are all the medical journals?” The panic hits fast and strange, and I can’t fully explain why.

Mom takes my hand, her fingers warm and steady—the way they always are when she’s about to deliver news she knows I won’t like.

My body braces. My mind starts rifling through possibilities, but there’s some kind of blockade, a wall formed by the sudden shifting of expectations, and I can’t think clearly.

“Honey, let’s sit down,” Mom says, wrapping a towel around herself and gesturing toward the cushioned window seat across the room.

It’s always been my favorite spot in the house—this room, but especially that window. Perfectly circular, it opens to the outside like a portal to another world. For me, that world was medicine.

Mom and I would sit beneath that window for hours, surrounded by textbooks, journals, and case studies. Pots of tea would grow cold on the table in the center of the room, forgotten in the thrill of combing through diseases, innovations, miracle recoveries. I’d clutch my orange DNA-shaped pillow and listen as she told stories—about her mother, my grandmother, a medical pioneer. About herself. About the path already carved, and the one I was meant to walk.

Everything in this room had meaning. Every object, every memory, came with intention. And when Mom explained them, they embedded. Her words, her presence—they weren’t just anecdotes. They were formation. They were blueprint. A legacy to keep alive.

The tea wasn’t just tea—it was metaphor, a woman’s journey. Hot water didn’t break us; it drew out our essence, steeped us in our strength, revealed who we were meant to become.

The plush DNA wasn’t just something cozy to lean against. It was proof: Medicine was in our makeup. Who we were. A calling to leave the world better than we found it.

We weren’t just healers. We were destiny-shapers.

And I loved the bond it created between us.

I had many ties to my parents, but medicine—this shared passion and identity—was the strongest. It was our language, our alignment. It’s how I’ve always known I was exactly where I was meant to be.

And when I saw the pride on their faces—every time I showed interest, every time I asked for more—I knew that loving what they loved created something alive between us. We held identical flames inside us, and I was fulfilling the unspoken charge they’d handed me: Carry the torch. Continue the work. Make things better.

Mom pats my thigh, and my eyes drift back to the empty bookcases. My parents now sit on either side of me. The room feels heavier, weighted with anticipation.

“We’ve been trying to find the right time to tell you this,” she says.