I never told my in-laws that I’m the daughter of the Chief Justice. When I was seven months pregnant, they made me cook the entire Christmas dinner by myself…-thaithao
“But David…”
“Just get the salsa, honey,” he said, turning to Mark. “Sorry, she gets a little nervous with the pregnancy hormones.”
Mark chuckled uncomfortably. “Don’t worry, man. Women, right?”
I felt a tear well up in the corner of my eye. I went back to the kitchen.
I was William Thorne’s daughter. I grew up in a library filled with first-edition law books.
I’d attended debutante balls in D.C. I’d played chess with Supreme Court justices in my living room.
But David didn’t know that. Sylvia didn’t know that.
When I met David, I was rebellious. I wanted to escape the suffocating pressure of my father’s legacy.
I wanted to be loved for who I was, not for my last name. So I told David I was estranged from my family. I told him my father was a retired office worker in Florida.
I thought I was finding true love. Instead, I found a man who loved my vulnerability because it made him feel powerful.
I went back to the dining room with the gravy boat. My legs were shaking uncontrollably.
I looked at the empty chair next to David. There was a plate, but no one was sitting there.
I couldn’t stand it anymore. I walked over and pulled the chair out.
The creaking of the wooden legs against the hardwood floor silenced the room.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Sylvia asked, her voice dangerously low.
“I need to sit down,” I said, gripping the back of the chair. “Just a minute to eat.”
Sylvia stood up. She slammed her hand on the table, sending the silverware flying.
“Servants don’t sit with the family,” she whispered.
I froze. “I’m his wife, Sylvia. I’m pregnant with your grandchild.”
“You’re useless. You can’t even cook a turkey properly,” she spat. “You eat standing up in the kitchen after we’ve finished. That’s how it works in my house. Know your place.”
I looked at David. My husband. The father of my child.
“David?” I pleaded.
David took a sip of wine. He didn’t look at me. He stared at the wall.
“Listen to my mother, Anna,” he said indifferently. “She knows best. Don’t make a scene in front of Mark. Go to the kitchen.”
A sharp pain shot through my lower abdomen. It wasn’t hunger. It was a cramp. A very strong one.
I gasped, clutching my stomach. “Dav
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