The jar of artisanal chili paste slipped from my sister’s fingers, landing with a dull thud on the plush carpet, but the sound was instantly drowned out by a scream that shredded my soul.
It wasn’t a cry of surprise. It was the primal, jagged shriek of a five-year-old child who has just been introduced to true agony.
I stood in the doorway of my childhood bedroom, the air suddenly thick with the metallic scent of adrenaline and the sharp, vinegar tang of peppers. My sister, Miranda, stood over the bed where my daughter, Sophie, was thrashing, her tiny hands clawing at her own face.
And Miranda was laughing.
It wasn’t a nervous titter. It was a full-throated, belly-shaking laugh, as if she were watching a comedian land a perfect punchline.
“Mommy! Mommy, I can’t see! It burns!” Sophie screamed, her voice breaking into a sob that choked her.
I lunged forward, the world narrowing down to the red, swollen skin of my daughter’s face. I reached for her, pulling her small, convulsing body against my chest, trying to stop her from rubbing the paste deeper into her eyes. “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”
