Chapter 2 - HANNAH’S HANDS
We did not wait until morning.
After the last guest left, I drove Hannah to urgent care.
Her original burns had been treated two days earlier at a clinic while I was still out of town.
I knew nothing about that.
My mother had texted me that same afternoon:
Everything’s good here. Hannah’s finally learning to relax.
Relax.
Hannah had second-degree burns across parts of both palms and several fingers.
The urgent-care doctor reviewed the dressing.
Then looked at me.
“Were you with her when this happened?”
“No.”
Hannah’s shoulders tightened.
I hated that she looked worried about my answer.
The doctor asked:
“Did you receive instructions not to use your hands extensively?”
Hannah nodded.
“Yes.”
“Were you able to rest?”
Silence.
The doctor looked at her.
“Hannah?”
“No.”
I felt sick.
“What do you mean?”
She finally looked at me.
“Your mom said she couldn’t cancel today.”
“The party?”
“Yes.”
“She made you cook?”
“She said most of it was already planned.”
“With burned hands?”
Hannah shrugged.
That shrug was worse than crying.
The doctor documented everything.
Not because every terrible family interaction automatically became a legal case.
Because the burns needed proper treatment and Hannah’s recovery mattered.
On the drive home, Sophie fell asleep in the back seat.
I kept both hands on the wheel.
Then I asked:
“How long?”
Hannah stared out the window.
“What?”
“How long has this been happening?”
She was quiet for so long that I thought she would not answer.
Then:
“Since your mom moved in.”
My hands tightened around the steering wheel.
Four months.
My mother had told me her apartment building was undergoing repairs.
She needed somewhere temporary.
I said of course.
Family helped family.
May you like
Four months later, my wife could not remember the last time she had felt comfortable sitting in her own kitchen.
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