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.”

He pleaded guilty, sobbing in court, begging for mercy. The judge—a man my father had mentored twenty years earlier—imposed the maximum sentence.

Sylvia had been sentenced to ten years for complicity and obstruction of justice.

They were gone. Erased.

My father came out of the house with two cups of tea. He sat beside me.

“Reading the news?” he asked softly.

“Just the comics,” I lied, folding the paper.

He smiled. “You look good, Anna. Stronger.”

“I feel stronger,” I said. “Yesterday I applied to Georgetown Law.”

My father raised an eyebrow. “Law? I thought you hated the law.”

“I hated the pressure,” I corrected. “I hated the expectations. But… I realized something that night in the kitchen.”

“What’s that?”

“The law is a weapon,” I said. “David tried to use it like a club to beat me down. He thought it belonged to him because he memorized the words.”