I never told my husband’s family that I’m the daughter of the Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court. When I was seven months pregnant, they forced me to cook the entire Christmas Eve dinner by myself—the traditional family Christmas dinner. My mother-in-law even made me eat standing up in the kitchen, saying it was “good for the baby.”

“Don’t move.”

I opened my eyes and saw my father sitting beside the bed, still wearing his dark suit.

His face looked older than I remembered.

“Dad…”

He took my hand immediately.

“I’m here.”

Tears filled my eyes.

“The baby?”

For a moment he didn’t answer.

Then he said softly, “The doctors stopped the bleeding.”

I held my breath.

“The baby is alive.”

Relief washed over me so suddenly that I began to cry.

“You need rest,” he said gently. “And you will never return to that house.”

A doctor entered the room and reviewed my chart.

“She’s stable,” he told my father. “But another hour without treatment could have been fatal.”

My father closed his eyes briefly.

After the doctor left, I asked quietly, “What happened to Daniel?”

My father sighed.

“His law firm already knows.”

“And?”

“Let’s just say they were not pleased to hear his name connected to domestic violence.”

“Is he arrested?”

“Not yet,” my father admitted.

Then he added calmly,

“But investigations move quickly when the police, the courts, and the press are all watching.”

Three months later, I was sitting in my father’s garden, sunlight warming the spring air.

My pregnancy had stabilized.

The baby was healthy.

My father walked outside holding a newspaper.