Chapter 13 - A New Tradition
November rolled in with a biting chill and golden leaves carpeting the neighborhood streets. With the holidays approaching, I knew the social landscape of our extended family was going to shift into uncharted territory.
True to my father’s word, Rebecca and Eleanor had entrenched themselves in Elmwood Drive, hosting a closed-door Thanksgiving dinner where my absence was treated as the ultimate scandal. Rebecca sent me a single, passive-aggressive text message on Thanksgiving morning wishing me "good luck building your independent little life," to which I simply hit Delete without responding.
Instead, Ruby and I started our own tradition.
We drove out to the countryside two towns over, visiting the quiet, peaceful cemetery where Clara was laid to rest. We brought a small bouquet of purple asters—Ruby’s favorite color—and placed them gently against the polished stone marker.
"Happy Thanksgiving, Great-Grandma," Ruby whispered, brushing a fallen leaf off the stone.
Standing there in the crisp autumn air, I realized how much lighter my shoulders felt. The fear of holiday obligations, manufactured dramas, and toxic approval-seeking was completely gone. We were free.
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On our way back home, we stopped by a local bookstore. I let Ruby pick out three heavy, hardcover books on marine biology and oceanography—no gift certificates locked away in a ledger, no approval committee needed, just pure, unadulterated encouragement to learn and explore.
When we got home, we baked Clara’s lemon shortbread cookies together, filling the kitchen with the warm, sweet scent of butter and sugar.
