Page 162 of The Love Operation

My dad—shirt unbuttoned, pants rolled up—clutches his chest. “I wrote you five letters in those two hours!”

I snort. It appears they’re taking significant creative liberties.

“You gave up on me!” Mom cries.

“You married a dentist!”

“He offered me free teeth cleanings, Nick!”

“It’s Noah. And I was gone for two hours!”

“Yeah, well,” she says, tossing a glance at the camera, “we don’t want a copyright issue on our hands, do we? So it’s Nick. Or Not-Noah.”

He huffs. “Fine. And you must be Not-Allie.”

“If you truly loved me, you’d know how Not-Allie I am.”

They spray each other again—dual-wielding water bottles that seem to materialize from nowhere.

Dad fights another smile, then comes to stand right in front of Mom. And something shifts.

My amusement disappears, replaced by a deep ache in my chest.

Dad steps in close. Their eyes lock. Mom lowers her spray bottle. Her expression softens, lips parting slightly.

“I’m not ready for it to be over,” she says, voice low.

The words land differently. No exaggeration. No performance.

My dad nods, eyes steady on hers. “It’s not over.”

Silence. No thunder sheet. No mop oars. Just the two of them, staring at each other like the rest of the world has faded out.

I stop breathing.

I’ve seen love before—passionate, reckless, emotional love. But this? This is something else. Something deliberate. Devoted. Unbreakable.

I memorize the way they look at each other. Because in their gaze is something I can feel from where I stand—an unspoken promise: Whatever comes, we’ll face it together. And somehow I know, whatever they lose, they won’t lose this.

I let the moment stretch as long as I can bear it. Then I clear my throat. “Another TikTok disasterpiece?” My voice sounds weird, like a gremlin’s in my throat.

They turn slowly.

Mom raises an eyebrow. She’s still her. “You’re just in time for the big monologue.”

“Ah,” I say. “A speech?”

“About love. About how you have to keep choosing each other, even when they forget to fill the gas tank or won’t share their fries.”

I blink. “That’s . . . surprisingly profound.”

“I ad-libbed it,” she says, smug.

“Of course you did.”

My dad waves me over. “Hey, sweetheart. Want to play the dentist in a flashback? The audience would love it.”

“Tempting,” I say. “But maybe another time.”