Chapter 9 - The Final Visit
Before the federal marshals transferred Brad to the federal correctional transfer facility in Oklahoma, he requested an in-person visitation.
Under the terms of our finalized uncontested divorce decree, I agreed to meet him one last time in the secure glass booth at the county jail.
I wore a tailored navy blazer, crisp white shirt, and my hair fell in soft, healthy waves across my shoulders.
My lower lip was completely healed, leaving only a tiny, faint silver line that served as an eternal reminder of my own strength.
Brad was led into the prisoner booth by two guards, wearing a bright orange jumpsuit, his ankles shackled by heavy iron chains.
He looked forty-five years old instead of thirty-four.
His hair was unwashed and thinning, his face was gaunt and sallow, and his eyes were hollow with absolute, crushed defeat.
He picked up the heavy plastic telephone receiver with shaking hands, pressing it against his ear.
I lifted mine, sitting upright and poised on the hard plastic chair.
"Megan," Brad croaked, his voice muffled by the scratchy intercom.
"You came."
"I came to deliver your finalized divorce decree, Brad," I said, holding the stamped court document against the glass.
Brad stared at the paper, tears welling up in his bloodshot eyes.
"The federal judge sentenced me to eighteen years this morning, Megan," Brad wept, his hands trembling violently against the counter.
"My father got twenty-two. My mother got eight."
"Kelsey has to do five years of community service and pay a hundred thousand dollars in restitution."
"Our downtown buildings were auctioned off yesterday on the courthouse steps."
"We have nothing left. Not a single dollar."
"Those are the wages of twenty years of theft, Brad," I replied, my voice completely devoid of hatred or spite.
"You and your parents thought you were kings who could trample over anyone who worked with their hands."
"You thought taking my savings and slapping my face would make you powerful."
Brad pressed his forehead against the plexiglass, sobbing so hard that his breath fogged the scratched surface.
"I loved you, Megan! I swear to God, in my own sick way, I loved you!"
"I was just so terrified of my father! I was drowning in his expectations!"
"If I had stood up to him... if I had protected you that night... would you have stayed?"
I looked at the broken man across the glass, feeling the last remaining knot of bitterness dissolve in my soul.
"No, Brad," I answered softly.
"Because a real man doesn't need his father's permission to treat his wife with honor."
"And a real man never raises his hand against the woman who trusts him."
"You made your choice three days after our wedding."
"And I made mine when I hit you back."
I slowly hung up the telephone receiver, sliding it onto its metal cradle.
May you like
Brad screamed my name through the thick glass, pounding with both shackled fists as the two guards grabbed his arms, forcing him back through the heavy steel door.
I picked up my purse, turned my back on his cries, and walked out into the clean, crisp Iowa air.
