I never told my in-laws that I was the Chief Justice's daughter. When I was seven months pregnant, they forced me to cook the entire Christmas dinner myself. My mother-in-law even forced me to eat standing in the kitchen, saying it was "good for the baby." When I tried to sit down, she pushed me so hard that I started having a miscarriage. I grabbed the phone to call the police, but my husband snatched it away and said contemptuously, "I'm a lawyer. You won't win." I looked him straight in the eye and calmly said, "Then call my father." He laughed as he dialed, unaware that his legal career was about to end. I had been cooking for my in-laws' Christmas dinner since 5 a.m. But when I asked to sit down because of back pain in my seventh month of pregnancy, my mother-in-law, Sylvia, slammed her fist on the table. "Servants don't sit with their families," she snapped. Eat standing in the kitchen after you're done. Be in your place! David, my husband, simply sipped his wine nonchalantly. "Listen to my mother, Anna. Don't embarrass me in front of my colleagues." A sudden cramp made me stagger. "David... it hurts..." Sylvia followed me into the kitchen, her face contorted with anger. "Are you faking it again so you can get out of work?" She pushed me with both hands. I fell backward, my lower back hitting the granite countertop. A searing pain shot through my abdomen. Bright red blood began to spread across the white tiles. "My baby..." I whispered in horror. David rushed in, saw the blood, and frowned. "Good grief, Anna, you always leave everything a mess. Get up and clean up; don't let the guests see." "I'm losing the baby... Call 911!" I begged. "No!" David snatched the phone from me and slammed it against the wall. "No ambulances. The neighbors will talk. I just joined the army; I don't need cops in my house." He bent down, grabbed my hair, and pulled my head back. "Listen to me carefully. I'm a lawyer. I play golf with the sheriff. If you say a word, I'll have you committed. You're an orphan; who do you think will believe you?" The pain became unbearable. I looked him straight in the eyes. "You're right, David. You know the law. But you don't know who wrote it." "Give me your phone," I demanded. "Call my dad." David laughed mockingly as he dialed the number I'd recited. He put it on speaker to ridicule my "nobody dad." "Identify yourself," a powerful, authoritative voice replied. "I'm David Miller, Anna's husband. Your daughter is creating a scene..."
I never told my in-laws that I was the Chief Justice's daughter. When I was seven months pregnant, they made me cook the entire Christmas dinner myself.
My mother-in-law even made me eat standing up in the kitchen, claiming that "it was good for the baby."
When I tried to sit down, he pushed me so hard that I started having a miscarriage. I grabbed the phone to call the police, but my husband snatched it away and said contemptuously, "I'm a lawyer. You won't win."
I looked him straight in the eye and said calmly, "Then call my dad." He laughed as he dialed, completely unaware that his legal career was about to end.
Chapter 1: The Servant's Christmas
The turkey was a twenty-pound monument to my exhaustion.
It sat on the counter, glistening with the icing I'd made from scratch (bourbon, maple, and orange zest), and it smelled of warmth and Christmas cheer. But to me, it smelled of slavery.
My ankles were swollen like grapefruits
️ ️I was seven months pregnant and my back felt like a railroad spike had been hammered into my lower back. I'd been on my feet since 5:00 AM.
Chop, roast, clean, polish.
"Anna!" Sylvia's voice echoed through the kitchen like a serrated knife. My mother-in-law didn't speak; she shouted. "Where's the cranberry sauce? David's plate is dry!"
I dried my hands on my stained apron. "I'll go get it, Sylvia. I'll take it out of the refrigerator."
I entered the dining room. It was a scene straight out of a magazine: crystal glasses, silver cutlery, and a crackling fireplace.
My husband, David, was sitting at the head of the table laughing at something his colleague, a junior partner named Mark, had said.
David was handsome in his dark gray suit. He looked successful. He resembled the man I thought I'd married three years earlier: a charming, ambitious lawyer who had promised to take care of me.
He didn't look at me when I put the glass container of cranberry sauce on the table.
"It's about time," Sylvia said contemptuously. She was wearing a red velvet dress far too tight for a woman of sixty.
He took his fork and speared the turkey onto his plate. "This turkey is dry, Anna. Did you baste it with oil every thirty minutes like I told you?"
"Yes, Sylvia," I whispered hoarsely. "I put it together exactly as you told me."
"Well, you must have made a mistake," he gestured at me. "Go get the sauce. Maybe that'll save her."
I looked at David. He was stirring his wine: an aged Bordeaux he'd decanted an hour earlier.
"David," I said softly. "My back hurts. Can I... can I sit down for a moment? The baby's kicking."
David stopped laughing. He looked at me with cold, annoyed eyes. "Anna, don't be so dramatic. Mark is telling us about the Henderson case.
Mark laughed uneasily. "Don't worry, buddy. Women, right?"
I felt a tear well up in my eyes. I went back to the kitchen.
I was William Thorne's daughter. I grew up in a library filled with first-edition law books.
I had attended debutante balls in Washington, D.C., and played chess with Supreme Court justices in my living room.
But David didn't know that. Sylvia didn't know that.
When I met David, he was a rebel. He wanted to escape the suffocating pressure of my father's legacy.
I wanted to be loved for who I was, not for my last name. So I told David I had distanced myself from my family. I told him my father was a retired office worker in Florida.
I thought I'd found 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 gravy boat. My legs were shaking uncontrollably.
I looked at the empty chair next to David. There was a plate, but no one was sitting there.
I couldn't take it anymore. I went and pulled out the chair.
The creaking of wooden legs on the wooden floor silenced the room.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Sylvia asked in a dangerously low voice.
"I have to sit down," I said, leaning back in my chair. "Just a moment to eat."
Sylvia stood up. She slammed her hand on the table, sending the silverware flying.
“Servants don’t sit with the family,” she whispered.
I froze. "I'm his wife, Sylvia. I'm pregnant with your grandchild."
"You're useless. You can't even cook a turkey properly," he snapped. "You eat standing up in the kitchen after we're done. That's how it works in my house. Learn to keep your place."
I looked at David. My husband. The father of my son.
"David?" I begged.
David took a sip of wine. He didn't look at me. He stared at the wall.
"Listen to my mother, Anna," he said indifferently. "She knows best. Don't make a scene in front of Mark. Go to the kitchen."
A sharp pain stabbed my lower abdomen. It wasn't hunger. It was a cramp. Very strong.
I gasped, holding my stomach. "Dav
"Something's wrong. It hurts."
“Let’s go!” Sylvia shouted, pointing cautiously with a finger toward the kitchen door.
I turned. I stumbled. The world tilted.
Chapter 2: The Fatal Push.
I tried to walk. Really. But the pain in my stomach was like a red-hot iron twisting inside me.
I stopped near the kitchen island, holding onto the granite countertop so I wouldn't fall.
“I said move!” Sylvia shouted behind me.
He had followed me into the kitchen. His face was twisted with pure, horrible fury. He couldn't stand disobedience. He couldn't stand that I had challenged his authority by trying to sit down.
"I can't," I said with difficulty. "Sylvia, please... call a doctor."
"You lazy, lying brat!" Sylvia screamed. "Always sick! Always tired! You're pathetic!"
She lunged at me.
He put both hands on my chest, right above my heart, and pushed.
️
It wasn't a gentle push. It was a violent and decisive push, fueled by years of bitterness and cruelty.
I lost my balance. My swollen feet slipped on the tiled floor.
I fell backwards.
Time seemed to slow down. I saw the overhead lights turn. I saw Sylvia's mocking face fade away.
My lower back hit the edge. The sharp edge of the granite island countertop.
CRACK.
It wasn't the sound of a bone breaking. It was the sound of an impact, deep and dull.
May you like
I fell hard to the floor. My head bounced against the tiles.
For a second, I just felt a shock. Then the pain came. It wasn't in my back. It was in my uterus.
