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.

This was a photograph of him in shirtsleeves, holding baby Grace and looking terrified that he might drop her.

Before dinner, Grace raised her glass.

“To Grandpa.”

We repeated it.

Then she added:

“And to Mom.”

I groaned.

“No speeches.”

“Too late.”

Everyone laughed.

Grace looked at me.

“To the woman who taught me that nobody gets to decide your place at the table except you.”

My throat tightened.

I looked down.

There I was.

Sitting.

Not because my father had been Chief Justice.

Not because I had proven anything.

Not because somebody finally granted me permission.

Because it was my chair.

My table.

My life.

David once told me I was a nobody and asked who would believe me.

For years, I thought the answer to that cruelty was my father’s name.

Jonathan Whitmore.

Chief Justice.

A title powerful enough to make an arrogant lawyer afraid.

I was wrong.