Friends first, they were drawn to marriage and parenthood

THE PARENTS: Therese Parker, 34, and Chung Cho, 38, of Old Kensington

THE CHILD: Cody Akiko, born Dec. 9, 2022

HER NAME: They wanted a first name with a hard-C start, and Akiko combines syllables from Therese’s middle name, Yoneko, along with those of her mother and sisters. The kanji (Japanese characters) for her name mean “bright joyful tiger.”

Chung was the most financially savvy person Therese knew: the kind of guy who understood mortgage rates and used such phrases as “diversifying your portfolio.” They were good friends, a bond forged through two years of group outings, happy hours, and triathlon training.

So why not buy a house together, strictly as pals, as an investment? “Because neither of us saw each other in a romantic way, it didn’t feel weird,” Therese says. “We’re friends; we trust each other. It felt like responsible adulting.” In April 2016, they did it: a house in Francisville, where they lived with Therese’s younger sister.

When the two first met, at a Memorial Day friend-group hangout in Ocean City, Md., Chung admits that Therese “wasn’t on my radar,” partly because she isn’t Korean. As an immigrant — Chung came to the United States when he was 4 — he’d absorbed the unvoiced family expectation.

“I’m the oldest son of the oldest male in my family,” he explains. “There’s a lot of Korean pride. The mentality generally is to date and marry within your own nationality.”

But something about Therese kept him hooked. They had vigorous debates about politics and whether women should serve in the military’s special forces. “We didn’t necessarily agree, but it was fun,” Chung says. “Her opinion was something I respected. As we had moments like that, I was considering: Oh, this is the kind of partner I would want.”

At a friend’s wedding a few months after they bought the house, a pal confronted Chung: “If Therese dates someone else, you’ll be kicking yourself.” And then there was season 2 of Aziz Ansari’s show, Master of None, with a recurring theme of missed opportunities.

Chung began wondering: “Should I make a move? Should I not?” He broached the idea of the two getting together romantically.

“He said he’d rather be with me than a watered-down version of me who just happened to be Korean,” Therese recalls. “I thought we were perfect for each other, but I was a little scared; I went in knowing this would be serious immediately.”

Their first official date was also their first experience at a Michelin-starred restaurant — Ko in Manhattan, during a trip to help Chung’s sister move to a new apartment.

“As soon as we started dating, I was very intentional with the idea of marriage being the end result,” he says. As for his family, “I had hit an age, a point where they were just happy I was going to bring someone home.”

The proposal came on Memorial Day weekend 2018, on a bench near a pier in Ocean City, the site of their first meeting. They wed legally in a Quaker ceremony a few months afterward — a pragmatic decision so Therese could be covered by Chung’s health insurance — then celebrated a year later with a party at Manayunk Brewing Co.

Therese remembers that Chung’s trademark cool — he can even seem aloof at first — quavered as they exchanged vows. “He got choked up. A tear didn’t break, but his eyes got a little watery.”

For both, children were the logical — and desired — next step. “I did think: Is it responsible to [have kids], with the state of the world, with global warming?” Therese recalls, but those worries weren’t pressing enough to be an obstacle.

They tried for a year on their own. They tried with a boost of Clomid to amp up Therese’s egg production. They made an appointment with a fertility clinic, only to learn that Chung’s insurance, the less-expensive plan his employer offered, wouldn’t pay for IVF. It wasn’t until early 2022 that he could opt for the premium coverage.

That period of trying to conceive — and repeatedly failing — ”was the most challenging thing we’ve had in our relationship,” Therese says. “But our communication did get better. We were forced to talk about things that are hard to talk about.”

After the first IVF cycle, Therese couldn’t help overriding the clinic’s advice to hold off on a pregnancy test. There was a faint line. The following day, another faint line.

“The first moment when it felt real was when we saw the heartbeat,” Chung says.

“I knew I was pregnant,” Therese says, “but part of me thought: Maybe something will happen and we won’t be parents. Each ultrasound, I was holding my breath.” Physically, the pregnancy was an easy ride: hardly any nausea; plenty of energy for using the rowing machine in their basement; and pausing for squats or lunges during walks around the park.

In order to use Chung’s paternity leave most efficiently, they opted for an induction on the day the baby was due. At Pennsylvania Hospital, Chung — who is squeamish about blood even on television shows — hovered by Therese’s head and kept flicking his eyes to the World Cup instead of what was happening below.

After 36 hours of labor and 20 minutes of pushing, after Therese’s mother cut the umbilical, the baby was finally nestled on Therese’s chest. “I started crying: We’re actually parents,” she remembers. “She literally moved her head from right to left and turned toward Chung.”

Therese says parenthood has tamed her impatience. And Chung — the numbers guy, the analytical, the cool — now knows something more about both ends of the emotional spectrum.

“I didn’t know I was capable of loving someone as much. Those moments when you’re just sitting there with her, and she’s staring up and gives me a big smile, and my heart just melts and I think: Who do I have to kill for you? I don’t think I’ve ever felt that kind of visceral emotion.”