Dashing in from the cold, I took off my coat and closed the door behind me. I'm back, I called to my husband Richard, then 33. It was February 2023 and I'd just dropped our daughter April, then six, at school. Slipping off my boots, I was greeted by Richard and our youngest, Luke, then 21 months, who welcomed me with a grin and cuddle. I've only been gone a few minutes, I laughed, cuddling him back.
As he toddled after me, giggling, I headed for the kitchen. Fancy a cup of tea?" I asked Richard, who was working as an IT technician from home in the living room. Clinking two mugs on the kitchen counter, I boiled the kettle as Luke played across the room. I grabbed two teabags and dropped them in each mug, before pouring in the steaming water. Then, as I turned my back to get the milk from the fridge, Luke appeared at my feet and, before I could react, reached up and grabbed one of the mug handles.
'Stop!' I cried, jerking to pull him away, but it was too late. His little fingers looped around the handle and the mug tipped. The second the scalding water touched his skin he let out an agonising scream, and so did I. The boiling water had gushed on to my baby's neck, shoulder and chest.
Richard rushed in to see what was going on. I scooped Luke up and instinctively ran the kitchen tap, splashing his red, hot skin with cold water.
'It happened so fast,' I screamed to Richard. All the while, my baby boy was hysterical, writhing in pain. 'We need to get him under the shower," I said, as Richard grabbed him and ran as fast as he could upstairs, with me close behind.
I ran the cold water in the shower and sat Luke beneath it. He sobbed in agony.
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Diese Geschichte stammt aus der March 02, 2024-Ausgabe von WOMAN'S OWN.
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