My son Grant hurled the heavy turkey platter across the dining table, striking me square in the chest.

With the closing date on my Victorian home less than ten days away, I needed a place to live.

I had no intention of staying in this town. The memories here had been poisoned by Grant’s greed and Paige’s cold malice. I wanted ocean air. I wanted salt spray, towering bluffs, and seagulls crying outside my bedroom window.

Arthur and I had spent our happiest summers in a quaint coastal village called Cape Haven, located three hours north. It was an artist’s community full of stone cottages, quiet bookstores, and rocky shorelines.

On Friday morning, I took the commuter train north.

Waiting for me at the Cape Haven station was Sarah Lin, a local coastal realtor Martin Vance had recommended. By midday, Sarah showed me a breathtaking property: a weathered-shingle cottage perched on a low cliff overlooking the Atlantic. It had two bedrooms, a sun-drenched painting studio, a wrap-around porch, and an English cottage garden sleeping beneath winter mulch.

The price was $495,000.

I stood on the bluff, feeling the biting winter sea breeze whipping through my hair, smelling the clean brine of the ocean. For the first time in five years, the heavy weight on my chest lifted. I could breathe.

“I’ll take it,” I told Sarah. “Full cash payment. Wire transfer upon inspection.”

By four o'clock, the paperwork was executed.

With the $780,000 cash coming from the sale of my Victorian, I would buy this coastal sanctuary outright and still have nearly $300,000 in excess cash to fold into Arthur’s existing investment trust.

I wasn't destitute. I wasn't helpless. I was completely free.

As I took the train ride home that evening, watching the snowy fields roll past the window, I composed a mental checklist. The closing on the Victorian was set for next Wednesday at 10:00 AM.

Grant and Paige believed they had until the end of the month to spring their trap.