Chapter 7 - The Unwritten Script
The weeks leading up to Christmas passed with a strange, unprecedented peace.
My parents had invited me over for Sunday dinners twice—not as a guest of honor to be paraded around, and not as a target for family jokes, but simply as an adult daughter whose life they were finally attempting to understand. Dad had even started asking intelligent questions about municipal healthcare policy, listening intently without interrupting or changing the subject to golf.
Grandma Rose spent most of her weekends at my apartment, drinking tea, knitting blankets, and occasionally reminding me that I still worked too many hours.
“You run four hospitals, Ellie, but you can’t even remember to buy fresh garlic,” she scolded me gently one Sunday morning while inspecting my kitchen pantry.
“That’s what personal assistants are for, Grandma,” I laughed, wrapping my arms around her frail shoulders.
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“Don't you get sassy with me,” she smiled, patting my hand. “Just wait until Christmas Eve. Your mother is planning to cook the turkey herself, and she’s terrified you’re going to audit her roasting temperature.”
“Tell her the thermal parameters are within acceptable safety margins,” I joked.
