family affair parte ocho

Currently listening to: That’s The Way Love Goes – Janet Jackson

Come with me, don’t you worry
I’m gonna make you crazy
I’ll give you the time of your life
I’m gonna take you places
You’ve never been before and
You’ll be so happy that you came
Ooh, I’m gonna take you there, ooh

This wasn’t a setup this time.

We met organically—through mutual friends. Nothing dramatic, no swiping right or algorithm involved. No pesky family members trying to insert themselves into my dating life. Just a casual introduction, a curious glance, and a question that turned into a dinner invitation. I said yes without overthinking it. I figured, why not? At the very least, it would make for a decent night out.

He was Taiwanese. Tall—6’1”, I’m fairly certain. A neurologist and three years older than me. We met at a cozy little Italian place tucked into a quiet corner of San Diego, the kind of place that had soft lighting and house-made pasta and enough charm to let the conversation breathe.

The vibe was good—easy, warm, nothing forced. We were halfway into our appetizer, bread still warm from the oven, when he looked at me with a slight smirk and said, “You must have a line of guys just waiting to take you out.”

I laughed. A real one. The kind that catches you a little off-guard.

He had no idea.

There was no line. Not even a queue. Just me, doing my own thing, fielding bad setups and ghosting weak attempts when I felt like it.

Then, out of nowhere, he asked about my last relationship. Just like that—mid-bite. I kept it brief. I said it ended. I don’t keep in touch with him. I said nonchalantly, “It ran its course.”

There was a pause after that. A long one. Not just silence, but weight. It lingered.

And then I realized—he wanted me to ask him about his.

So I did.

He told me about her. A physical therapist. Korean, like me. Same height. Same “twinkle in the eye,” whatever that meant. He said I reminded him of her—our energy, our kindness. She was, in his words, “the love of his life.”

I asked him what happened.

He hesitated. Said they broke up because his mom wouldn’t accept her. She didn’t think she was “on his level.” Not educated enough. Not accomplished enough. Not whatever enough.

I asked him, “Would you have chosen her, even if it meant your mom stopped speaking to you?”

Another pause as he stared into the floor.

Eventually, he nodded.

So I looked him straight in the eye and told him, “Get your phone out. We are going to text her.”

He blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Text her,” I said. “Tell her what you just told me. That you love her. That you want to be with her.”

His face turned red. He stammered, “No, no, we’re on a date—this isn’t—”

“It’s fine,” I cut in. “If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be. She deserves to know. And let’s be honest—I can’t be with someone who’s still missing their ex. I don’t want to live in her shadow.

He was nervous. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He didn’t know what to say.

So I dictated it to him.

“Hi. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to say this, but I love you. I want to be with you.”

He typed it. Hands trembling. I reached over and hit send.

Five minutes later, she replied.

“I feel the same way. Can we talk?”

I told him the date was over and that he should take the call. I paid for our appetizer, left a decent tip, and walked out into the San Diego night.

A month later, he texted me. He’d moved to NorCal to be with her. They were engaged. His mom threw a fit, but eventually backed down—she didn’t want to lose her only son.

He thanked me.

I never replied.