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 sat on the counter, glistening with glaze I had made from scratch (bourbon, maple, and orange zest), smelling of warmth and Christmas cheer. But to me, it smelled like slavery.

My ankles were swollen to the size of grapefruits.

I was seven months pregnant and my back felt like someone had driven a railroad spike into my lumbar spine. I’d been on my feet since 5:00 a.m.

Chopping, roasting, cleaning, polishing.

“Anna!” Sylvia’s voice sliced through the kitchen like a serrated knife. My mother-in-law didn’t speak; she shrieked. “Where’s the cranberry sauce? David’s plate is dry!”

I wiped my hands on my stained apron. “Coming, Sylvia. I’ll get it from the fridge.”

I walked into the dining room. It was a magazine scene: crystal glasses, silver cutlery, roaring fireplace.

My husband, David, sat at the head of the table, laughing at something his junior partner colleague Mark had said.