I let my lawyer husband call my father after he mocked me on the kitchen floor, unaware he was dialing the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.

The four weeks between the verdict and the sentencing were the quietest weeks of my life.

I went home. Not to the big suburban house with the flag by the mailbox—I had that sold and bulldozed a week after the trial, the ground salted so nothing would ever grow there again—but to my father’s house. The big stone house on the hill, the one I had grown up in, the one I had run away from when I was twenty-two because I thought it was too big, too fancy, too much. It felt safe now. The high walls. The security gates. The quiet.

I spent my days walking in the gardens. Reading. Going to therapy. Learning how to be Anna Grayson again. Learning how not to flinch when someone raised their voice. Learning how to take up space at a dinner table. Learning that it was okay to sit down. That I didn’t have to ask permission. That I wasn’t a servant. That I was enough.

My father was there every step of the way. He worked from home a lot. We ate dinner together every night. He never pushed me to talk about what happened. He just let me heal.

The sentencing hearing was on a Tuesday in mid-March. The snow was melting. The first crocuses were pushing up through the dirt.

The courtroom was even more packed than it had been for the verdict. Everyone wanted to hear the final number. How long would they get? Would it be enough?

David went first.

He stood up in his orange jail jumpsuit, his hands cuffed, his hair cut short by the prison barber. He had lost twenty pounds. He looked old. Tired. Beaten. His lawyer asked for leniency. Cited his previously clean record. His years of service to the community. The fact that he was a first-time offender. That he had already lost everything—his job, his license, his home, his reputation. That he had suffered enough.

Then David was given a chance to speak.

He looked at the judge. He looked at the jury. He looked at me.

And for a second, I thought he might actually apologize. I thought he might finally say he was sorry. That he regretted it. That he wished he could take it back.

He didn’t.

Instead, he lifted his chin. “Your Honor,” he said, his voice hoarse but steady. “I maintain my innocence. This was never a fair trial. The jury was biased. The evidence was tainted. The entire proceeding was a sham orchestrated by the Chief Justice to destroy me because I wasn’t good enough for his daughter. I did not hurt my wife. I did not kill my son. I am an innocent man. And I will spend the rest of my life proving it.”

He sat down.

The judge didn’t even blink.

Then it was Sylvia’s turn.

She stood up. She had aged ten years in four weeks. Her hair was gray at the roots. Her designer clothes were gone, replaced by the same orange jumpsuit. She had lost her arrogance. Her sneer. All that was left was a bitter, broken old woman.

Her lawyer begged for mercy. Said she was elderly. Said she had health problems. Said she would die in prison if they gave her a long sentence. Said it was a moment of madness. That she had never meant to hurt anyone. That she was sorry.

Sylvia was given a chance to speak.

She looked at me. And for the first time, I saw tears in her eyes. Real tears.

“Anna,” she said. Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was angry. I was stupid. I thought you were taking my son away from me. I thought you didn’t respect me. I let my pride and my jealousy get the better of me. And I killed that baby. I killed my own grandson. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wish I could take it back. That I could trade places with him. I know you hate me. And you have every right to. I hate myself too. I just… I wanted you to know I’m sorry.”

She sat down, sobbing.

I didn’t feel anything. No pity. No anger. No satisfaction. Just… nothing. She was sorry now, sure. But she hadn’t been sorry when she pushed me. She hadn’t been sorry when she told me to eat standing up. She hadn’t been sorry for three years of cruelty. She was only sorry because she was caught. Because she was going to prison.

Claire stood up for the victim impact statement. She looked at the judge. “Your Honor. The state asks for the maximum sentence allowed by law. For Sylvia Hale: thirty years for manslaughter, plus ten for aggravated battery, to be served consecutively. For David Hale: twenty-five years for manslaughter, plus ten for assault, plus five for tampering with evidence, also consecutive. These two people made a choice. A choice to hurt a vulnerable woman. A choice to let a baby die. They have shown no true remorse. They have taken no responsibility. They deserve every single day they get.”

Then it was my turn.

I walked up to the stand. I didn’t have a speech prepared. I just looked at David and Sylvia, and I said the only thing that mattered.

“On Christmas night,” I said, my voice clear and strong, “my son lived for forty-seven minutes. Forty-seven minutes. That is all the time he got on this earth. He never got to open his eyes. He never got to take a bottle. He never got to feel the sun on his face. He never got to take his first step, or say his first word, or go to his first day of school. He never got to be loved. All because these two people cared more about pride, and power, and a stupid chair at a dinner table. Forty-seven minutes. No amount of time in prison will ever bring him back. No sentence will ever be long enough to make up for what they took from me. But it has to be enough. It has to be enough to show the world that you don’t get to hurt people who can’t fight back. You don’t get to kill babies and walk away. Whatever you give them, Your Honor… it won’t be enough. But it will have to do.”

I sat down.

Judge Stanton looked at me for a long moment. Then he picked up his pen.

“Sylvia Hale,” he said. “For the crime of manslaughter of an unborn child, I sentence you to thirty years in the state penitentiary. For the crime of aggravated battery, I sentence you to ten years. These sentences will run consecutively. You will serve a minimum of eighty-five percent of that time before you are eligible for parole. With good behavior, you will be eligible when you are ninety-two years old.”

Sylvia let out a wail and collapsed into her chair.

“David Hale,” the judge continued. “For the crime of manslaughter of an unborn child, twenty-five years. For assault, ten years. For tampering with evidence, five years. Consecutive. You will serve a minimum of thirty-four years before you are eligible for parole. You will be sixty-eight years old when you get out. Furthermore, as a convicted felon, you will never practice law in this state again. Your disbarment is automatic and permanent.”

He banged his gavel one final time. “Court is adjourned.”

It was done.

Thirty years for Sylvia. Forty for David.

They would die in prison. Both of them.

As the deputies led them away, Sylvia didn’t fight this time. She just walked, her head down, weeping. David walked stiffly, his back straight, still pretending he was innocent, still pretending he was better than everyone else. But I saw his hands. They were shaking.

He knew.