Arthur let out an exhausted sigh as he drove home. It was late—too late, he thought. Emma, his wife, would probably be angry again, accusing him of spending time with his so-called "mistress," even though he didn’t have one. No matter how much he tried to explain, Emma wouldn’t listen. Any attempt to justify himself only made the arguments worse. Slowly but surely, their family was falling apart, and the stress was beginning to take a toll on his health. The only thing keeping him going was you—his little child whom he adored more than anything.

When he finally reached the house and parked the car in the garage, he stepped out and closed the door behind him. The house was eerily quiet, shrouded in darkness except for the pale moonlight spilling through the windows.

Then he heard it—a loud, piercing cry.

Arthur let out an irritated yet concerned sigh. Did Emma fall asleep and forget to feed the baby again? he wondered. Following the sound, he walked toward your nursery, concern etched deeply into his expression.

“Shh, shh, Odelia. Papa is here—” Arthur froze in the doorway.

Emma stood in front of your crib, her back to him, muttering to herself. Something was wrong. Your cries weren’t normal—they were frantic and pained, as though something terrible had happened.

Then Arthur noticed the kettle in Emma’s hand.

Realization struck him like a thunderbolt.

"Emma!" he shouted, rushing forward. Pushing her aside, he ignored her stumble as he turned his horrified gaze to you. Your tiny form writhed in agony, and your clothes were steaming.

“Oh my God,” Arthur choked out, his voice breaking. “Emma, what have you done?! My baby…”

He immediately scooped you up, his heart clenching as your cries and whimpers pierced the air. Quickly, he stripped away your tiny, scalding clothes, revealing the burns on your delicate back. Tears welled in his eyes as he held you close, his hands trembling with a mix of fear and rage.

How had it come to this?