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.”

David looked handsome in his dark gray suit. He looked successful. He looked like the man I thought I’d married three years ago: a charming, ambitious lawyer who promised to take care of me.

He didn’t look at me when I placed the glass dish of cranberry sauce on the table.

“About time,” Sylvia sneered. She wore a red velvet dress too tight for a sixty-year-old woman.

She speared the turkey on her plate with her fork. “This bird is dry, Anna. Did you baste it every thirty minutes like I told you?”

“Yes, Sylvia,” I whispered hoarsely. “I basted it exactly as you said.”

“Well, you must have done it wrong,” she dismissed me with a wave. “Go get the sauce. Maybe that’ll save it.”

I looked at David. He was swirling his wine: an aged Bordeaux he’d decanted an hour earlier.

“David,” I said softly. “My back hurts so much. Can I… can I sit for just a moment? The baby’s kicking hard.”