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.”

“Well then you must have done it wrong,” she said dismissively. “Fetch the gravy. Perhaps it can rescue this disaster.”

I turned toward my husband, hoping for something I had stopped expecting. “Aaron,” I said softly. “I need to sit down. My back is hurting badly, and the baby has been kicking nonstop.”

His smile faded into irritation. “Rebecca, please. Paul is in the middle of a story. Do not interrupt.”

“I am not trying to interrupt,” I said, swallowing hard. “I just need a moment.”

He waved his hand without looking at me. “Just grab the gravy. You know pregnancy makes you overreact. Paul understands.”

Paul laughed awkwardly and nodded as if this were all harmless. “Yeah. Totally normal.”

Something inside my chest tightened, and I turned back toward the kitchen before the tears could spill. I reminded myself of where I had come from, of the home filled with books and debate and quiet authority. I had grown up among people who wrote policy and argued before courts that shaped the nation. But I had hidden all of that when I met Aaron because I wanted love without expectation, affection without calculation.