Some of her injuries healed more quickly than others. Some left tight patches of skin that made turning her neck painful. Other areas remained sensitive long after the wounds closed.
When I finally saw her without the hospital dressings, I didn’t know what to say.
Her face was swollen. Her skin was covered in marks I had never seen before.
She noticed me staring.
For one terrible moment, she looked more frightened of my reaction than she looked of the pain.
Then she reached for my hand.
“It’s still me, baby.”
I started crying.
“I know, Mom.”
I climbed into her bed carefully, trying not to touch the places that hurt.
She held me against her chest, and we cried together.
My father stood near the window.
He told everyone who visited that we had been lucky.
He explained that he’d left a pan of oil heating on the stove and gone outside to smoke. By the time he realized the situation had become dangerous, the fire had spread.
