I was just trying to set down my hot tea, and it slipped. I tried to hold it together in front of my dad as the liquid stayed on my skin knowing that a lecture of some sort would come my way. I wiped the coffee table from my mess, sat down on the couch, got up, and went to the bathroom; I cried. It was as if Saturday night’s mishap was happening all over again. The burn, the tension, the lecture and complaining from my parents, the sorry and pitiful looks that I keep getting nonstop, the little African woman— who I felt cared deeper than anyone by far— that wished me to heal fast; everything. It was scary and I don’t think my mom truly understands. Even as I tried to vent out to her, the reply I got was how she got burned on her forearm… Gee mom, try getting burned on the full length of both of your arms. This is going to be an tad tougher, emotionally, that I thought.