At my daughter's fifth birthday party, my husband’s mistress tied my five-year-old daughter to a pillar and tripped me down the stone stairs. She mocked me, snarling, "You're a cripple! What makes you think you can protect your daughter from me?" When I retaliated, my husband shielded her, calling me unhinged. Just then, my father walked in...

Two months later.

The visiting room at the Maryland State Correctional Facility was dark, sterile, and smelled of cheap floor wax and stale coffee. Thick bulletproof glass separated the rows of steel tables, and armed guards stood every ten feet along the concrete walls.

I sat on a metal stool, wearing a simple beige trench coat and black trousers.

The heavy steel door on the inmate side buzzed open.

Nolan Finch walked in.

He was wearing a bright orange jumpsuit, his hands cuffed to a chain around his waist. His handsome face was gone; his cheeks were sunken, his hair was cropped short and graying at the temples, and his eyes were dull, bloodshot, and filled with a permanent, nervous twitch.

He sat down heavily on the metal stool across from me, picking up the black plastic phone receiver with trembling hands.

I picked up my receiver, placing it against my ear.

"Mara..." Nolan rasped, his voice buzzing through the speaker. "You... you actually came."

"I came because the parole board sent me your hardship petition," I said, my voice dead flat. "You listed me as a character witness."

Nolan pressed his face against the glass, his eyes wide with pathetic, desperate pleading. "Mara, please! You have to help me! The guards here... the other inmates... they know what I did! I can't survive twelve years in this place!"

"You chose this path, Nolan," I said softly.

"I made a mistake!" he sobbed, tears spilling over his sunken eyes. "I got confused! Cassidy manipulated me! She was the one who wanted the money! I loved you, Mara! I cared for you after your accident!"

I looked at him through the glass. A year ago, those words might have triggered a wave of guilt or confusion. Today, they sounded like the meaningless chatter of a small, frightened child.

"You didn't care for me, Nolan," I said calmly. "You cared for the control. You loved having a wife who was dependent on you because it made you feel powerful. But the moment I tried to stand on my own feet, you tried to destroy me."

"Mara, please!" he begged, slamming his cuffed hands against the glass. "Think of Sadie! She needs her father!"

"Sadie is six years old now, Nolan," I replied, leaning in close to the glass. "She's at the top of her class. She plays soccer. And every weekend, she watches me run five miles along the bay."

I took a deep breath, looking straight into his broken, hollow eyes.

"She doesn't ask about you. She doesn't remember your voice. And when she looks at me, she doesn't see a victim. She sees a superhero."

Nolan’s face crumpled completely. He slumped back against his chair, weeping silently into his chained hands.

I set the phone receiver down on the cradle.