I didn’t want to fight anymore. I forced a smile that felt like knives in my mouth and dragged myself to the kitchen.
The soup was boiling in the pot when I ladled it out and set it on the table. My hand ached from holding the heavy dish.
She wrinkled her nose immediately. “That’s it? This is the best you can do? It looks disgusting. Do you even know how to cook?”
I clenched my teeth, and whatever was left of my patience snapped. “Then don’t eat it,” I muttered.
Her eyes glinted with something cruel, and before I realized what was happening, she grabbed my wrist and shoved my hand straight into the scalding soup.
The pain shot up my arm like fire eating through my veins. I screamed and tried to pull away, but she pressed harder, pinning my hand down while the bowl rattled and spilled. The ceramic shattered against the floor and hot soup splashed everywhere.
I finally yanked free, clutching my wrist, but the skin was already swelling and blistering. My hand didn’t even feel like it belonged to me anymore.