“I never wanted them to hurt you like that.” I stopped.

I looked him directly in the eye.

“When your mother texted you that your father had beaten me,” I said, “you wrote back: maybe she’ll finally learn her place.” His face went completely white.

“I was angry,” he stammered.

“And I,” I said softly, “was bleeding on your floor.” He had no answer.

There was no answer.

And I walked past him and into the hearing, and I did not look back, because I had finally understood that a man’s remorse, arriving only after his crimes have cost him everything, is not remorse at all.

It is only grief for himself.