My husband beat me bloody because I bought the "wrong" bag of coffee, then went to bed smiling after telling me, "Maybe now you've finally learned some respect." The next morning, he walked downstairs expecting my apology—but froze when he found a table full of guests who had come to witness the truth, not breakfast.

Three weeks later.

The Cook County Maximum Security Correctional Facility was a cold, grey fortress of concrete and steel standing under a dreary autumn sky.

Inside the private visitation room, a thick pane of bulletproof glass separated the two sides of the room.

I sat on a metal stool, wearing a simple burgundy wool sweater and dark slacks, looking calm, rested, and completely at peace.

On the other side of the glass, a heavy steel door opened, and a guard shoved Ethan into the room.

He looked unrecognizable. His tailored linen shirts were gone, replaced by a dingy, oversized yellow inmate jumpsuit. His hair was messy and unwashed, dark purple circles hung beneath his bloodshot eyes, and his hands were cuffed to a chain wrapped tightly around his waist.

He sat down heavily on the stool, his hands trembling as he picked up the gray plastic telephone receiver.

I picked up my receiver, holding it to my ear without saying a word.

"Clara..." Ethan’s voice cracked through the small speaker, weak, scratchy, and pathetic. "Clara... please... you have to help me. You have to talk to the prosecutor."

"Why would I do that, Ethan?" I asked calmly.

"It’s hell in here, Clara!" he sobbed, pressing his forehead against the cold glass. "They... they know what I’m in here for! The other inmates... they treat me like trash! My mother is living in a motel in Rockford! She doesn't have any money for her medicine! Please... drop the charges! We can sign a divorce agreement! I’ll give you everything!"

"You don't have anything to give me, Ethan," I reminded him softly. "Everything you thought you owned belonged to my family. Your business has been liquidated to pay back the funds you embezzled. Your mother’s luxury car was repossessed. And your house... well, it’s my house."

"Clara, please!" he wept, his hands clawing at the glass partition. "I’m sorry! I swear to God I’m sorry! I was wrong! You deserve respect! You’re smart, you’re powerful... I was just insecure! I hit you because I was scared of you!"

I looked at him—at the man who had stood over me in my kitchen three weeks ago, full of liquor and arrogance, telling me that a wife needed to be disciplined.

"You weren't scared of me, Ethan," I said, my voice steady and unwavering. "You were scared of losing control. You thought hitting me would make you feel big. But all it did was show me how tiny you really were."

"Clara... please..."

"The prosecutor offered you a plea deal today, Ethan," I informed him flatly. "Fifteen years without parole. If you take it, you’ll be fifty years old when you step out of those doors. If you don't take it... Victor’s legal team will ensure you get the maximum twenty-five."

Ethan stared at me, his mouth hanging open in sheer, unadulterated horror. "Fifteen... fifteen years?!"

"I suggest you take the deal, Ethan," I said, setting the plastic receiver back onto its metal cradle. "Because I’m done listening to your excuses."

I stood up from the stool, smoothing my sweater, and turned my back on him.