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.”

“I can’t,” I gasped. “Sylvia, please… call a doctor.”

“You lazy, lying brat!” Sylvia yelled. “Always sick! Always tired! You’re pathetic!”

She lunged at me.

She placed both hands on my chest, right over my heart, and shoved.

It wasn’t a gentle push. It was a violent, forceful shove fueled by years of bitterness and cruelty.

I lost my balance. My swollen feet slipped on the tile floor.

I fell backward.

Time seemed to slow. I saw the ceiling lights spin. I saw Sylvia’s mocking face recede.

My lower back slammed into the sharp edge of the granite island countertop.

CRACK.

It wasn’t the sound of a bone. It was the sound of impact—deep and dull.

I crashed to the floor hard. My head bounced off the tile.

For a second, there was only shock. Then came the pain. Not in my back. In my womb.