At the family dinner, my husband poured hot soup on my head while his mother laughed.. Then he said "You've got 10 minutes to get out." I wiped my face pulled some papers from my bag laid them on the table and said calmly "You're right." 10 minutes later...

The visitation room at the Rikers Island Correctional Facility smelled of disinfectant, old floor wax, and stale sweat.

I sat on one side of the thick glass partition, waiting quietly.

A heavy metal door buzzed open, and Grant Mercer walked in, escorted by two corrections officers. He was wearing an oversized beige prison jumpsuit. His hair was shaved close to his scalp, his beard was overgrown, and his eyes were hollow, surrounded by dark, purple circles.

He sat down on the stool across from me, his movements slow and mechanical. He picked up the plastic telephone receiver with a hand that trembled visibly.

I picked up my receiver.

"Nora..." his voice came through the speaker, thin, raspy, completely devoid of its former booming confidence. "You came."

"I came to deliver the final divorce papers, Grant," I said quietly.

Grant looked down at the metal counter between us. "Nora... please. Look at me. I know I was a monster. I know I hurt you. The soup... God, Nora, every night when I close my eyes in this cell, I see the soup hitting your head. I hate myself. I hate what I became."

"You didn't become a monster in that dining room, Grant," I said, my voice smooth and unemotional. "You were always a monster. The soup was just the moment you stopped pretending."

Tears streamed down Grant’s hollow cheeks. "They’re going to give me twelve years, Nora. The lawyer says if I take the plea deal, I’ll serve eight. Eight years in this place! My mother is sick... Julian is working at a car rental desk... Clara is selling her clothes online... We have nothing!"

"You have what you earned, Grant," I said. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"Nora, please!" Grant pressed his hand against the glass, his eyes wide with desperate pleading. "You bought the debt! You own the company! You can tell the DA you don't want to press charges! You can save me! I’ll sign a postnuptial agreement! I’ll give you total control! I’ll be your assistant! Just don't leave me in here!"

I looked at his hand pressed against the glass.

Three years ago, I would have done anything for this man's approval. I would have cooked his meals, organized his schedule, tolerated his mother's cruelty, and cried myself to sleep, all for a single warm look from him.

Now, looking at him through the reinforced glass, I felt absolutely nothing. No anger. No malice. No love. Just complete, total indifference.

"Sign page four, Grant," I said, sliding the white document through the small slot at the bottom of the frame.

Grant looked at the paper, then at me. "If I sign this... will you help my mother?"

"If you sign this," I said, "I will ensure your mother’s medical care is covered in a modest facility. That is the absolute extent of my mercy."

Grant’s hands shook so violently he could barely hold the pen. He flipped to page four and signed his name on the dotted line: Grant Mercer.

He pushed the paper back through the slot. "Nora... do you... do you ever think about when we first met? In Boston? When we were happy?"

I picked up the signed divorce papers and placed them neatly inside my leather folder.

"We were never happy, Grant," I said, standing up from the stool. "You were happy having a trophy you thought you could break. And I was happy believing a lie."