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018| My grandparents seem so happy in this picture. I wish I knew them better.

Roxanne Waight had always thought her grandparents’ love story sounded like something out of an old romantic film — the kind with rain-soaked airports and slightly overdramatic music.

Tone Carlton, the brilliant Swedish OB/GYN with steady hands and a soft accent, met David Carlton, the sharp-tongued trauma surgeon from London, at a medical conference in Copenhagen. He’d spilled his coffee on her notes — and somehow, that became a lifetime.

They built their life in London, two doctors with opposite temperaments but the same heartbeat. Tone delivered babies by day; David stitched together the broken by night. Together, they raised three children in a house that smelled of disinfectant, espresso, and classical music.

The youngest, though — she had her father’s fire and her mother’s quiet steel, but none of their patience for hospital corridors. She became a doctor, too, for a while — until she met a man named David Mustaine. The rock star. The hurricane. The love that pulled her into another orbit entirely.

And so, from white coats and sterile halls, the Carlton legacy spilled into guitars, glitter, and late-night stages. Roxanne often thought about that — how one family could hold both medicine and music, discipline and chaos, structure and soul.

Her grandparents healed bodies. Her parents healed hearts — and sometimes broke them, too.

Maybe that’s just what being a Carlton meant: always finding a way to keep the pulse alive.