I never told my in-laws that I was the Chief Justice’s daughter. When I was seven months pregnant…

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

Chopping, grilling, cleaning, polishing.

“Anna!” Sylvia’s voice echoed 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. “I’ll get it, Sylvia. I’ll get it from the refrigerator.”

I walked into the dining room. It was a scene straight out of a magazine: crystal glasses, silver cutlery, and a crackling fire.

My husband, David, was sitting at the head of the table, laughing at something his colleague, a junior partner named Mark, had said.

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