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.

Neighbors.

Two of David’s partners.

Sylvia’s sister.

David’s cousin.

People who had heard at least some of what happened.

Maybe not the shove.

Maybe not everything in the kitchen.

But enough.

“I think so.”

“Go toward other people.”

David grabbed the phone.

“Okay, we’re done.”

“No.”

My father’s voice cracked across the speaker.

Not loud.

Absolute.

“Do not disconnect this call.”

David laughed again.

“You don’t give orders in my house.”

“No.”

My father answered.

“I don’t.”

Then he said something I will remember until I die.

“But Anna does not need your permission to seek emergency medical care.”

David’s jaw tightened.

“I told you, I’m an attorney.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

My father became very quiet.

“David, what is your bar number?”

David froze.

“What?”

“Your bar number.”

“Why?”

“Because you have repeatedly identified yourself as an attorney while attempting to prevent an injured person from obtaining emergency assistance.”