Jacqueline happened to be there, and she watched me do it with tears in her eyes.

“I am trying so hard,” I laughed, wiping my face, “not to throw a party over walking twenty feet.” “After what those two put you through,” she said, “you are allowed to celebrate every single inch.”

My grandmother’s firm flourished under my full attention.

I expanded it, brought on a brilliant new senior partner, and eventually sold the very commercial building Beatrice had tried so hard to steal — and I used a large part of the proceeds to establish a foundation that provides emergency housing and legal support for women escaping domestic abuse and financial control.

I knew, better than most, exactly what it feels like to lie on a cold floor believing you are powerless, and I wanted there to be a phone number, somewhere, for the next woman on the next floor.

I stayed in the suburban house two more years before I sold it, and when I did, some friends assumed it meant Christopher and Beatrice had finally driven me out.