The death sentence.

Was it really fair?

He'd taken two lives and, in turn, they had taken his. Two, or in this case three, wrongs didn't make a right.

His wife sat crying for his lost life and praying for his doomed soul. She knew what he had done was wrong and she, being a religious woman, believed he would spend eternity in Hell for it, but what about his family?

His children. He had two. One son, one daughter, both under the age of four. They didn't know what was going on, only that mommy was crying and daddy was no where to be seen. They didn't understand and it would be sometime before they did.

Growing up they would be known as, "the murderer's kids," and would endure harsh rumors, harsher judgment, and they would be shunned by students and parents alike. How would they handle that?

And what about his mother? His poor, old, fragile mother? What would she do? Her son, her only son, was dead. She would not let that go until she died. Parents weren't supposed to bury their children.

Lastly, what about her? Her husband was dead and gone. Could she find love again? Would she want to?

No. Not yet anyway. She had children to raise and she needed time to grieve. And grieve she would.

She held her children close to her and decided she would move. She would not subject them to school here. Preferably, a state that didn't support the death penalty, she decided.

They would be happy again, though it would take time and she would never forgive the court for this.

Justice? This was not justice. It was pain. It was grief. It was sorrow, but it was not justice. It wasn't fair. It wasn't moral. It wasn't humane. It was harsh and rash and cruel.

But whoever though about the killer's family?

No one.

No. All that mattered was the victim's family, but such is life.

Such is life.