One paramedic asked her to roll up her sleeves so he could examine her.
She hesitated and looked at me.
“Show them everything,” I told her softly, “you don’t have to protect anyone in this house anymore.”
Slowly, Jessica pulled up her sleeves.
Old scars mixed with fresh burns along both arms.
The paramedic frowned at a particularly deep injury near her left wrist.
“How exactly did this injury happen?” the paramedic asked with a frown.
Jessica glanced toward my mother.
“It happened early this morning when she asked me to test if the stove pot was hot enough, and when I reached for a spoon, she grabbed my bare wrist and forced it against the hot metal edge, telling me that was how I would learn to do things right,” Jessica explained quietly.
One police officer stopped writing.
I felt physically sick.
Then Olivia’s bedroom door opened.
