The hospital called: “Your 8-year-old daughter is in critical condition.” When I arrived, my daughter whispered, “My stepmother burned my hands… she said thieves deserve it.” I only had bread because I was hungry

I entered the room. It was dimly lit, illuminated only by the flickering lights of the monitors. And there, in the middle of that bed that seemed far too large for her eight-year-old body, was my little girl. She was so pale she almost blended into the sheets. But my eyes went straight to her hands. Both hands were wrapped in thick bandages, like boxing gloves made of gauze, lightly stained with a yellowish fluid and blood. They were propped up on pillows.

“Daddy?” The sound was a thread of a voice, broken and dry. I collapsed beside the bed. The tears I’d been holding back burst forth. I wanted to hold her, but I was afraid to touch her and cause her more pain. “I’m here, princess. Daddy’s here. What happened, my love? Was it an accident with the stove?”

Lily opened her eyes. They were wells of terror. She stared at the door, scanning the hallway in a panic. Her breathing quickened, making the heart monitor beep. “Don’t let her in,” she whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please, Daddy, promise you won’t let her in.”