I never told my in-laws that I am the daughter of the President 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 in the kitchen, saying it was “good for the baby.” When I tried to sit down, she pushed me so violently that 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.

“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.

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.”

David stopped laughing. He looked at me with cold, annoyed eyes. “Anna, don’t be dramatic. Mark is telling us about the Henderson case. Don’t interrupt.”

“But David…”

“Just bring the sauce, honey,” he said, turning back to Mark. “Sorry, man. She gets a little hormonal with the pregnancy.”

Mark chuckled uncomfortably. “No worries, dude. Women, right?”

A tear burned the corner of my eye. I returned to the kitchen.

I was William Thorne’s daughter. I grew up in a library lined with first-edition law books.

I attended debutante balls in D.C. I played chess with Supreme Court justices in my living room.

But David didn’t know. Sylvia didn’t know.

When I met David, I was rebellious. I wanted to escape the suffocating pressure of my father’s legacy.

I wanted to be loved for me, not my last name. So I told David I was estranged from my family. I told him my father was a retired clerk in Florida.

I thought I was finding true love. Instead, I found a man who loved my vulnerability because it made him feel powerful.

I returned to the dining room with the sauce boat. My legs were shaking uncontrollably.

I looked at the empty chair beside David. There was a plate, but no one was sitting there.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I pulled out the chair.

The screech of wooden legs against hardwood silenced the room.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Sylvia asked in a dangerously low voice.

“I need to sit,” I said, gripping the chair back. “Just a minute to eat.”

Sylvia stood. She slammed her hand on the table, making the cutlery jump.

“Servants don’t sit with the family,” she hissed.