My burnt arm

There's a scar on my arm… I sat at the kitchen table. My seven-month-old sister sat on my lap. My mother was in her bedroom with the door closed. As I poured hot coffee into a foam cup my sister swung her little arms and knocked over the coffee. I quickly lifted her high in the air so she wouldn’t get burnt. But when I brought her back down to my lap, I screamed! The skin on my arm had shriveled up. I so scared my sister that she too screamed. My mother came running into the kitchen. "What happened?" "I got burnt." My mother grabbed my sister. I run into my bedroom to grab a blanket to put on my arm. My mother stopped me. "Don't put that on your arm. It'll stick." My mother calmed me. She took me into the bathroom. I sat on the toilet while she looked through the medicine cabinet. "I need to go to the hospital," I said. The burn was the size of a grapefruit. "No, you don't," she replied, "I'll take care of it." She found an anti-burn ointment; she carefully covered the burn with the ointment. Then she laid gauze on the burn and taped it down. My mother looked after the burn like a doctor. We watched the burn heal itself. A third-degree burn and she didn't take me to the hospital. I can only imagine that she feared questions might be raised.