“I know,” I said.

“I have forty-eight dollars in my commissary account,” he said. “That is it.”

“You have what you earned,” I said.

He looked at me for a long time, searching my face for some sign of anger or regret.

There was none left.

“Do you hate me?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I do not think about you at all.”

I hung up the receiver and walked out into the cold afternoon air.

I drove back to my townhouse.

The rooms were small, but they were clean and quiet.

I sat at my oak desk by the window, looking out at the bare trees.

I opened my laptop to check the balance of my personal account.

The numbers on the screen were steady, solid, and entirely mine.

The price of my marriage had been steep, but the price of my freedom had been paid in full.