Page 69 of The Love Operation

Impression: The kind of woman who handwrites thank-you notes and actually mails them. Probably never swore in her life. Could probably run a Fortune 500 company but chooses instead to run her home—and God have mercy on whoever questions that choice.

“Isaac’s been telling us how well things are going between you two,” Patrice says. Then she smiles at him, clearly pleased.

“They have. Really well,” I admit, and it’s true. Aside from today, the past month has only reinforced that taking this risk was worth it. And after the near miss with Dr. Tenpenny barging into Isaac’s office a week ago, we’ve both been more careful.

“I’m so pleased. You’re just like Isaac—driven, put together. I can already tell you’ll make a dynamic team.”

Isaac takes my hand under the table. We make eye contact. It calms me.

“Isaac needs a strong woman to keep him in line,” his dad says, winking at his wife.

They clearly have a solid relationship, and I feel bad for judging them. If this is what works for them, who am I to say otherwise?

“So, if things keep going well, when do you think you’ll settle down and start a family?”

Isaac chokes on his tea. “Mom.”

“Cordelia is a surgeon. She doesn’t mind me being blunt, do you, dear?”

I don’t say Actually, that’s rude and none of your business. Instead, I say, “Right now, we’re taking it one step at a time.”

“How old are you, dear?”

“Mom—” Isaac tries again, but I put a hand on his thigh.

I can handle his mother. “Thirty-six.”

Her eyebrows rise. “I see. So you’ll want to settle down sooner rather than later. The clock is ticking.”

Something in me sours. I’ve heard this line before—in med school, in residency, in clinic. It always comes wrapped in concern and condescension.

I resist the urge to rise from my seat and punch this woman in the nose. I don’t need to be reminded that time is passing, and I’m on the older side for starting a family. I am painfully aware.

I take a breath before answering, but I don’t comment on the clock thing. “I don’t see why we’d need to settle at all.”

Her mouth forms a perfectly round O of offense. “I didn’t mean settle. I meant slow down. You won’t be able to keep surgeon’s hours once you’re a wife.”

Isaac must sense my irritation because he puts his hand on my arm. “Cordelia is amazing,” he says. “I have no doubts she’ll be an excellent wife, mother, and surgeon, if she chooses to.”

“But—”

“So tell us more about your day-to-day, Cordelia,” his dad interrupts, smoothly redirecting.

Isaac’s father: Henry Thompson. Seventy-ish. Retired healthcare executive.

Chief identifying characteristics: Polished. Observant. The calm within the storm. Reads the room in seconds and could manage a crisis with nothing but a knowing nod and a legal pad. Clearly passed his composure—and wardrobe—on to his son.

Physical exam: Trim White male. Silver hair combed with care. Crisp slacks, polished loafers. Smells like aftershave and expensive pens.

Impression: Once led billion-dollar negotiations but still insists on carving the turkey. Diplomacy is his superpower. The steady, strategic type who raised Isaac to lead—without ever needing to raise his voice.

After that, the conversation simmers. Everyone is kind, and once we move off marriage and children, Patrice becomes animated—borderline charming. They’re all invested in getting to know me. That much is clear and encouraging.

As we walk to Isaac’s car, leftovers in hand, I think about what I could be a part of. This family is tight knit. They care about one another. Their dynamic isn’t what I’m used to, but it works—for them.

The question is . . . Does it work for me?

“They liked you,” Isaac says as he backs down the driveway.