Listening to Pomelo's words, I got lost in thought and reached for the custard bowl with my bare hands.
I screamed in pain as I burned myself, and the custard and bowl fell to the ground.
Martin saw this and quickly put Pomelo down, rushing over, "Let me see."
He grabbed my hand to check the burn.
It wasn't serious, just a bit red, but it was my first time cooking in years, and the egg custard I made for Pomelo was ruined.
Martin held my hand under cold water, scolding me, "Don't you know your own cooking skills?"
I pulled my hand back and coldly replied, "You have some nerve staying here after I told you to get out."
After a while under the cold water, my hand stopped hurting. I squatted down and said to Pomelo, "Pomelo, we'll have to order takeout for dinner tonight."
Pomelo nodded, holding my hand and blowing on it, "Mommy, Pomelo will blow on it; it won't hurt anymore."
For some reason, my nose started to sting.
Martin sneered, "If the cameras weren't off, ordering takeout would have people thinking you're abusing the kid."
He's always had a sharp tongue.
He's been like that since he was a kid.
In the past, I might have snapped back at him, but now, all I feel is a deep sense of weariness.
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