“Abby.” His voice sounded surprised. “Happy Thanksgiving. Is something wrong? You don’t usually call this early.”
“Happy Thanksgiving to you, too, Henry. I need to see you today. It’s important.”
“Sure.” He got serious. “The bank’s open till lunch today. Come by at ten. I’ll have a window.”
“Thank you, Henry. I’ll see you at ten.”
I ate breakfast, watching the morning news on my tablet. Nothing caught my eye—the usual headlines about politics, the economy, celebrities. My personal drama occupied all thoughts.
At ten, I got in my car and drove to the city center where the bank’s main office was located. Normally I avoided traveling on the Friday after Thanksgiving. The streets were filled with bargain hunters, but today was too early for the main influx of shoppers.
Henry was waiting for me in his office. He hadn’t changed much in twenty years—still the same thin man with a neat haircut, now with gray at his temples. He stood up, walked around the desk, and hugged me tightly.
“Abby, Abby, it’s good to see you. How was the party?”
“Not very well.” I sat down in the chair across from his desk. “That’s why I’m here.”
I told Henry about last night’s incident, about the boat, about Austin’s years of financial support. He listened intently, not interrupting, only occasionally nodding or frowning.
“I blocked his access to my main account and credit cards yesterday,” I finished. “But I want to make sure it’s done right, and I need advice on how to proceed.”
Henry leaned back in his chair and looked at me thoughtfully. “Abby, I’m telling you as a friend, not as a banker: you did the right thing. It was high time you put boundaries in place.”
He opened his laptop and spent a few minutes checking my accounts.
“Okay, you’ve already blocked access to the main account correctly. The supplemental card is also blocked. As for the joint investment account—”
“Wait, what joint account?” I tensed. “We don’t have joint investment accounts.”
Henry frowned and turned the screen toward me. “This one here opened three years ago. You don’t remember? It’s got your signature on it.”
I stared at the document on the screen. It was my signature, but I didn’t remember opening an account like this three years ago.
What was going on then? Oh, right—Austin had asked me to sign some papers for his business. He must have slipped me this agreement.
“I didn’t open that account on purpose, Henry. Austin must have slipped the documents along with the other papers.”
Henry shook his head. “This is serious, Abby. But fortunately, there’s only about fifteen thousand in the account. We can close it today if you have all the paperwork.”
“Sure.”
I pulled a folder of paperwork out of my bag. I’d always been pedantic about finances and kept all the important papers in order.
Henry and I spent the next hour going through all my accounts and investments. Fortunately, most of my funds were out of Austin’s reach. After Raymond died, I had sold our stock in Gulf Energy and invested in safe bonds and index funds. Those accounts were in my name only.
“You know,” Henry said when we were done, “you’ve always been a smart investor. Your financial situation is more than stable. You could afford a fresh start if you wanted to.”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking.” I nodded. “I have a plan.”
We closed the joint investment account, and Henry transferred the money to my personal account. Then we updated all my contact information and security settings. Now Austin couldn’t access any of my accounts.
“Thank you, Henry.” I stood and shook his hand. “You’ve been a big help.”
“You’re welcome, Abby. I’m glad you finally decided to stand up for yourself.”
As I walked out of the bank, I felt a lightness I hadn’t felt in a long time, like I’d been carrying a heavy weight for years. Freedom from Austin’s manipulations was intoxicating. The phone vibrated in my bag. Another call from my son. I dropped the call and got in the car. I had one more place to visit.
The Sunshine Properties real estate office was in the Garden District, not far from my house. I had been working with them for the past six months, looking at properties in Florida. It wasn’t that I was seriously planning a move. It was more of a dream—a way to imagine a life without the constant pressure of my son. But now the dream could become a reality.
Samantha Prescott, my realtor, greeted me with a smile.
“Mrs. Cuttingham, what a pleasant surprise. I wasn’t expecting you today.”
“Hello, Samantha. I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Not at all. Have a seat. What can I do for you?”
I sat in the chair across from her desk. “You know that house in Sarasota we looked at last month? The one overlooking the bay?”
“Sure.” Samantha opened a folder on her computer. “One story, three bedrooms, two baths, patio overlooking the water. It’s a very nice house.”
“Is it still for sale?”
“Yeah, although the price has come down a bit. The owners want to close the deal by the end of the year.”
I took a deep breath. Moment of truth. “I want to make an offer.”
Samantha blinked in surprise but quickly pulled herself together. “Great. Full asking price, or do you want to haggle?”
“Full. I want to close the deal as soon as possible.”
We spent the next hour filling out the necessary paperwork. I made a deposit on my credit card, promising to wire the rest after confirmation from the sellers.
“If everything goes smoothly,” Samantha said when we were done, “you should be able to move in in a month—in time for Christmas.”
“That’s great.” I smiled. This was exactly what I wanted.
As I left the realtor’s office, I felt hungry and went to a small café nearby. I ordered a turkey sandwich and a salad, enjoying a moment of peace. My phone rang again. This time it wasn’t Austin, but an unfamiliar number.
“Grandma.” Harper’s quiet voice came through.
“Harper.” I straightened up. “Honey, where are you calling from?”
“From school. From a friend’s phone,” she explained. “I was worried about you. Daddy was so awful last night.”
“It’s okay, honey.” My voice softened. “Adults fight sometimes, but it’s nothing to worry about.”
“But he was so mean.” I could hear the tears in her voice. “And this morning, he was even angrier. He was yelling at Mom that he couldn’t get money out of some card.”
So Austin had already discovered that I’d blocked his access to my accounts. No wonder he was furious.
“Harper, listen to me.” I tried to speak calmly and confidently. “Your dad and I are going through a difficult time. We’ve both said and done things we regret, but I promise you that everything will be okay.”
“You do?” She didn’t sound very convinced.
“Really. There may be some changes in the near future, but I’ll always be there for you when you need me. You can call me anytime, even if your parents don’t want you to.”
“Promise?” Her voice trembled.
“I promise, sweetheart. Now you’d better get back to class before they miss you.”
“Okay, Grandma. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Harper—more than anything.”
We said goodbye, and I put the phone away, fighting the lump in my throat. Harper was the one person I could give up for—go back to my old life as a financial donor for Austin—but I knew that would be wrong. The unhealthy relationship with my son was affecting my granddaughter as well, setting a bad example for her.
After finishing lunch, I headed home. It had been a busy but productive day. I had taken important steps toward a new life—a life on my terms.
At home, the first thing I did was check my email. There was confirmation from Samantha: the sellers of the Florida house had accepted my offer. The deal was supposed to close within thirty days. I leaned back in my chair, feeling a mixture of emotions—excitement, fear, anticipation. A new home, a new city, a new life. At sixty years old, I was starting over. The thought was frightening and uplifting at the same time.
The phone rang again—Austin, for the tenth time that day. I still wasn’t ready to talk to him, but I knew I would have to sooner or later. He wouldn’t back down that easily, especially when he realized I was serious.
I decided to give myself the weekend to think things over and prepare. On Monday, I would meet with a lawyer to consult about a will and opening an education account for Harper. I wanted to secure my granddaughter’s future without allowing Austin and Payton access to that money.
Laurel called in the evening. I told her about Thanksgiving and my plans to move.
“Finally,” she exclaimed. “I’m proud of you, Abby. It was a brave move.”
“I’m still not sure if I’m doing the right thing,” I admitted. “Is it too drastic to move to another state after what happened?”
“No, it’s not drastic. It’s necessary,” Laurel said firmly. “You need physical distance between you and Austin, or you’ll succumb to his manipulations again.”
She was right, as always. Distance would help me keep my resolve—not give in to my son’s entreaties or threats.
“What about Harper?” I asked. “I’ll miss her.”
“Florida isn’t on the other side of the world,” Laurel reminded me. “You can see her on vacations, on weekends, and there’s no denying technology—video calls, texting.”
“Yeah, of course.” I sighed. “I’m just afraid that Austin will forbid her to talk to me.”
“He could try,” Laurel agreed. “But Harper’s not a little girl anymore. She’s eleven, and she’s clearly on your side. Don’t underestimate her.”
After talking to Laurel, I felt more confident. My plan made sense. I would secure Harper’s future through an educational account that would be out of Austin’s reach. I would move to Florida, start a new life. I would keep in touch with my granddaughter as much as possible.
That evening, I sat down to write a letter to Austin. Not an email—a real letter on paper. I wanted to explain my actions without succumbing to his emotional pressure to meet me in person.
Dear Austin, I began. After the events of Thanksgiving, I’ve made a difficult decision. I will no longer fund your life or your business endeavors. For fifteen years, I’ve tried to buy your love and respect, but yesterday I realized it was impossible.
I wrote at length, expressing everything that had accumulated over the years—my love for him as a son, my disappointment at his behavior, my decision to start a new life, my hope that someday he would understand my motives. When I finished the letter, I sealed it in an envelope and set it aside. I would give it to Austin in person when I was ready for a confrontation.
Around eight, the doorbell rang. I tensed. Had Austin decided to pay a visit? I went to the door and looked through the peephole. Harper was standing on the doorstep with a small backpack.
I swung the door open. “Harper, what are you doing here alone? Do your parents know you’re here?”
She shook her head, clutching her backpack to her chest. “They don’t. They think I’m at a friend’s sleepover. I couldn’t—I couldn’t stay home. Daddy yells all the time, saying horrible things about you.”
I hugged my granddaughter and let her into the house. My heart ached for her suffering, but at the same time, I felt anger at Austin. How could he behave like that in front of a child?
“You did the right thing to come,” I said, sitting Harper down on the couch. “But we need to call your parents. They’ll be worried.”
“They won’t check until tomorrow morning,” Harper objected. “Please, Grandma, can I stay with you tonight? I don’t want to go home.”
I hesitated. On the one hand, I couldn’t encourage her to run away from home. On the other hand, I could see how upset she was.
“Okay,” I decided. “You can stay the night, but we’ll call your parents in the morning and explain everything.”
Harper nodded with relief. “Thank you, Grandma.”
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