On the front page of the local section, there was a small article.

*Nolan Pierce Sentenced to Twelve Years for Fraud.*

Below it, another headline read: *Sloane Barrett Receives Eight-Year Sentence.*

I looked at the black-and-white photographs of them being led from the courthouse.

Nolan looked thin, his expensive suit hanging loosely on his shoulders.

His hair was unkempt, and he refused to look at the cameras.

Marjorie had been spared prison but was ordered to pay full restitution, forcing the sale of her suburban estate.

She was now living in a small rented apartment in Delaware, stripped of her social standing.

I felt no anger looking at them.

I only felt a quiet sense of closure.

“The first clinic opened its doors yesterday,” my father said, pouring coffee into two ceramic mugs.

“We already have forty-two cases.”

“The director says they need to hire three more staff attorneys.”

“Hire them,” I said, taking a mug from him.

“We have the funds.”

“No mother should have to fight for her child alone.”

My father smiled.

“I am proud of you, Evelyn,” he said quietly.