The sting of Evelyn’s hand across my cheek still burned, but the numbness in my chest was far worse. As I knelt on the hardwood floor, hot potato soup cooling against my scalded palm, the dining room felt suffocatingly small. Twenty family members sat frozen in their holiday best, their eyes darting between Evelyn’s triumphant smirk and Daniel’s averted gaze.

Daniel Evans—once the golden boy of Manhattan society, draped in bespoke suits and driving imported sports cars—now wore the faded blue uniform of a federal inmate. His hair was unwashed, dark circles bruised his hollow eyes, and his shoulders were permanently slumped in defeat.

He picked up the heavy plastic telephone receiver with shaking hands. I picked up mine.

“Elena...” Daniel’s voice cracked instantly, raw and pathetic. “Please... I’m begging you. Drop the restraining order. Tell the prosecutors to ease up on my sentence. It’s freezing in here. They treat me like an animal.”

I didn't smile. I didn't frown. I simply looked at him with absolute, crystal-clear detachment.

“You’re talking to the wrong person, Daniel,” I said evenly.

“You have the power to fix this!” he sobbed, pressing his palm against the glass partition as if trying to reach me. “We were married for seven years! I loved you!”

“No, Daniel,” I corrected him quietly. “You loved the convenience of me. You loved having a wife who cooked your meals, absorbed your mother’s verbal abuse, and never complained when you neglected her. But the moment your mother slapped me to the floor, and you told me ‘not to make such a big deal out of it’... you signed your own sentence.”

Daniel closed his eyes, fat tears finally spilling over his lashes. “I was a coward,” he whispered. “I know I was a coward. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry doesn't rebuild a shattered life, Daniel,” I said, placing the receiver back onto its cradle.