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.
"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.