Across the street, outside a dingy budget hotel that smelled of stale beer, a man in an ill-fitting gray uniform pushed a heavy broom, sweeping wet leaves from the entrance.

He looked exhausted, defeated, his shoulders permanently slumped, his once-thick hair now gray and thinning.

It was Daniel. Out on early parole, stripped of his wealth, his reputation, his mother’s legacy, and his pride — working the only labor a convicted federal felon with a violent record could find.

He paused to wipe his brow with a dirty sleeve, and his hollow eyes drifted across the street.

Our eyes met. The broom slipped from his hands and clattered onto the wet concrete. He froze.

He saw the woman he’d discarded as useless, now radiating a quiet, absolute authority. He saw the healthy, thriving children he’d thrown away, standing entirely out of his reach.