I never told my in-laws that my father is the Chief Justice. I spent the entire day cooking Christmas dinner for the family, only to have my mother-in-law make me eat while standing in the kitchen.

“Dad.”

One word.

That was all I managed.

His voice changed instantly.

“Are you injured?”

“Yes.”

“Are you bleeding?”

David’s expression shifted.

I answered.

“Yes.”

“How far along are you?”

“Twenty-nine weeks.”

Another pause.

Short.

Controlled.

Then my father said:

“David, call 911.”

David laughed nervously.

“Sir, with respect, you don’t understand what’s happening.”

“I understand that a woman who is twenty-nine weeks pregnant says she is injured and bleeding.”

“It’s not as dramatic as she’s making it sound.”

My father’s voice remained level.

“Call 911.”

David looked at me.

“No.”

The silence on the line lasted perhaps two seconds.

Then:

“Anna, can you move?”

“A little.”

“Can you get away from David?”

David’s face hardened.

“What the hell kind of question is that?”

My father ignored him.

“Anna?”

I looked toward the doorway.

Beyond it, twenty-three people were sitting around the Christmas table.

Lawyers.