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.”

“Anna?” The voice changed instantly. The official tone cracked, revealing the terrified father beneath. “Where is my daughter? Put her on the phone.”

“She’s right here,” David said, rolling his eyes. “Crying on the floor because she slipped.”

He shoved the phone toward my face.

“Dad?” I whispered.

“Anna?” My father’s voice sharpened. “Anna, why are you calling this number? Why are you crying?”

“Dad…” A sob broke my composure. “They hurt me. David and his mother. Sylvia pushed me. I fell… I’m bleeding, Dad. There’s so much blood. I think… I think the baby’s gone.”

The silence on the other end was absolute. It was a void.

David looked at me, confused. “Why are you telling him that? He can’t help you.”

Then the voice returned. But it was no longer a father’s voice. It was God’s voice.

“David Miller,” my father said.