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.”

I looked at him. Really looked at him. I saw the cheap suit. The desperate ambition. The smallness of his soul.

“You’re right, David,” I said. My voice was calm, but it didn’t tremble. “You know the statutes.”

I pushed myself up until I was sitting, leaning against the cabinets.

“But you don’t know who wrote them.”

David frowned. “What are you talking about? Is the blood loss making you delirious?”

“Give me your phone,” I said.

“What?”

“Give me your phone,” I repeated. “Call my father.”

David laughed. It was a frantic, disbelieving sound. He stood and looked at his mother. “Did you hear that? She wants to call her daddy. The retired clerk from Florida. What’s he going to do? Write me a stern letter?”

“Call him,” I said. “Put it on speaker.”

David shook his head, pulling his new iPhone 15 Pro from his pocket. “Fine. Let’s call him. Let’s tell him his daughter is a clumsy hysteric who can’t even keep a pregnancy.”