Page 163 of The Love Operation

Dad must hear the note of heaviness in my voice. Their expressions soften.

“You wanna talk?” Mom asks, reaching for me.

And just like that, my throat tightens. My eyes blur.

“Not really,” I say. “But I’m here. And I need to tell you that I’m sorry.”

They grab their towels, and we move to our spot under the window in the library, with Dad across the room, letting us have a moment.

I start with a head-laced-with-heart apology, telling them what I’ve realized—how I’ve been trying to be who I thought they needed, instead of simply showing up as myself. I explain why their retirement hit me the way it did: It felt like I was losing my strongest connection to them.

But now we’re all losing our connection to Mom. And right now, I’d give anything for retirement to be the only thing we were facing.

But they already know most of what I’m admitting.

At some point, my mom gently cups my face in her hands. “I’m sorry, Cordelia.”

I blink. “For what?”

“For ever making you feel like you had to apologize for being yourself.”

Her voice is steady, but it carries weight.

“I was so proud when you showed interest in medicine. It felt like . . . continuity. Like I was passing on a piece of our heritage, a piece of myself. And I thought I was cheering you on. I never set out to make you feel like I expected more from you than the others. But I think I did anyway.”

She pauses and massages her hands on her lap.

“I saw you as my strong one. The one who could take it all. And you were so capable, I didn’t see what it was costing you.”

One of her hands reaches out for mine.

“But no one can carry everything. And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like my love or our connection was tied to what you did—or how much you could hold. It wasn’t. It isn’t.”

A breath, a beat, as I pull this in like air.

“You are one of the most incredible women I know,” she continues. “But you don’t have to be okay right now.”

Her eyes search my face, like she’s trying to memorize every feature, as if she’s willing the lines of my face to imprint on her brain.

Her voice falters, just slightly. “This is brutal. It’s terrifying. I’m losing pieces of myself, Cordelia—memories, words, little corners of the map that made me me. I know it’s happening, and I can’t stop it. I can’t outrun it.”

She inhales deeply, her grip tightening on my hands.

“But right now, I am still here. And you don’t have to hold it together. You don’t have to be strong for me. Let. Yourself. Feel. It.” She takes a breath. “I am strong enough—for both of us.”

And that’s when I break.

I fold into her, like someone finally called me home. Because everything she’s said seems to have unlocked the last part of me that was chained.

“I don’t want to lose you,” I whisper. I am not a surgeon or a grown woman—I’m a daughter. “I’m not ready. I don’t know how to be me without you. And I don’t know how to walk through the world without knowing you’re just a phone call away, offering the kind of encouragement I absolutely do need.”

She rests her forehead against mine, and I feel her smile. “When have you ever needed me to tell you what to do?” She lets that land before continuing. “From the moment I laid eyes on you—when you were red and squalling and perfectly imperfect—I started pouring everything I had into you. Every ounce of love, every bit of instinct, every lesson I ever learned. You’ve been absorbing it for decades. It’s all in there now.” She lays her hand against my chest. “In you.”

The impact of this hits hard.

“The hardest part,” she says softly, like an apology, “will be the times I look like I’m still here, but you’ll know that I’m gone. I’ll be me . . . and I won’t. All at once.” She pauses. “It’s then that I want you to remember this—this promise of presence, even in my absence.”

We sit like that for a while—my mother’s hand still resting over my heart, my tears still soaking the shoulder of her dress. No one says anything. There’s nothing else that needs to be said. I know that the likelihood of her even remembering that she told me this is slim, but I will.