I never told my in-laws that I am Chief Justice’s daughter. When I was 7 months pregnant, they forced me to cook the entire Christmas dinner alone. My mother-in-law even made me eat standing in the kitchen, claiming it was “good for the baby.”

The turkey weighed almost as much as my regret. It sat in the center of the marble counter like a trophy no one had asked me to win, its skin lacquered with a glaze that had taken hours to perfect, brown sugar melted into bourbon, citrus oils clinging to the air like forced cheer. The kitchen smelled like celebration, yet my body felt like it was being slowly dismantled piece by piece.

By the time the oven timer rang, my ankles were swollen beyond recognition and my lower back pulsed with a deep, relentless ache that made it hard to breathe evenly. I was well into my third trimester, and the child inside me had been restless all morning, reacting to every sharp movement and every wave of stress I failed to suppress. I had been awake since before dawn, moving from stove to sink to counter in a rhythm that felt less like preparation and more like punishment.

“Rebecca.” The voice came sharp and high, slicing through the room from the dining area. “Why is the table still missing the relish. Aaron cannot eat dry meat.”