I never told my in-laws that I am the daughter of the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. When I was seven months pregnant, they forced me to cook the entire Christmas dinner alone. My mother-in-law even made me eat standing up in the kitchen, claiming it was ‘good for the baby.’ When I tried to sit down, she pushed me so hard I began to miscarry. I reached for my phone to call the police, but my husband snatched it away and mocked me: ‘I’m a lawyer. You won’t win.’ I looked him straight in the eyes and said calmly: ‘Then call my father.’ He laughed as he dialed, unaware that his legal career was about to end.”

It felt like something had torn.

“Ahhh!” I screamed, curling into a ball.

“Get up!” Sylvia shouted, standing over me. “Stop faking! You didn’t even hit your head!”

Then I felt it.

Heat. Wetness. Soaking my underwear. Spreading down my thighs.

I looked down.

Against Sylvia’s immaculate white kitchen tiles, a bright crimson pool was rapidly expanding.

“The baby…” I whispered. The horror was absolute. It drowned me.

David ran into the kitchen, followed by Mark.

“What happened?” David asked, annoyed. “I heard a crash.”

“She slipped,” Sylvia lied instantly. “So clumsy! Look at this mess! She’s bleeding on my grout!”

David looked at the blood. He didn’t kneel. He didn’t yell for help.

He frowned.

“God, Anna,” David groaned. “Can’t you do anything without drama? Mark, sorry. She’s… she’s going through a rough time.”

Mark was pale. “David, there’s a lot of blood. Maybe we should call 911.”