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.”

“God, Anna, you always make a mess. Get up and clean this; don’t let the guests see.”

“I’m losing the baby… Call 911!” I begged.

“No!”

David snatched my phone and smashed it against the wall.

“No ambulance. The neighbors will talk. I just made partner; I don’t need police in my house.”

He crouched down, grabbed me by the hair, and yanked my head back.

 

“Listen carefully. I’m a lawyer. I play golf with the Sheriff. If you say one word, I’ll have you committed to a psychiatric ward. You’re an orphan; who do you think is going to believe you?”

The pain turned into a hell of rage. I stared straight into his eyes.

“You’re right, David. You know the law. But you don’t know who wrote it.”

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

David laughed mockingly as he dialed the number I recited. He put the call on speaker to ridicule my “nobody father.”