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.”

Judith Blake did not call out so much as announce her displeasure to the walls themselves. I dried my hands on the apron I had already ruined and answered quietly that I was bringing it now, even though my knees trembled as I walked.

The dining room looked like a photograph staged by someone who had never cooked a meal in their life. Polished silver caught the firelight. Crystal glasses stood untouched. At the head of the table sat my husband, Aaron, relaxed and confident in his tailored navy jacket, smiling as he listened to his coworker Paul talk about a case that meant nothing to me.

Aaron looked successful. He looked satisfied. He looked nothing like the man who had once promised that I would never have to prove my worth to anyone.

He did not look up when I set the bowl down.

Judith examined the turkey with open disdain and shook her head. “You rushed it,” she said, spearing the meat with her fork. “I told you to baste it properly. This is what happens when you do not listen.”

“I followed your instructions,” I replied, my voice thin from exhaustion. “Every half hour.”