Under the sleeve were three thick strips of gauze wrapped around his wrist and halfway across his palm.
Not neat bandages either. The cheap kind somebody changes at home.
I looked at him and he immediately yanked the sleeve back down so hard the chair scraped the floor.
Then he whispered, “Please don’t tell Mom I showed you.”
I asked what happened.
He stared toward the balcony door before answering.
“Said I grabbed the pan wrong.”
The thing was, I’d raised two kids myself. I knew the difference between a cooking burn and something somebody was hiding.
And I knew fear when I saw it.
My daughter came back inside right then carrying her phone and smiling too quickly. Asked if we wanted pie like nothing had happened.
My grandson wouldn’t look at either of us.
I stayed another hour pretending everything felt normal while my stomach twisted worse by the minute. Every time she moved too fast near him, his shoulders jumped before she even touched him.
When I finally got up to leave, he followed me quietly to the door.
Just stood there in that hoodie in ninety-degree heat.
I told him he could always call Grandma if he needed me.
He nodded once.
Then, very quietly, he asked, “If somebody gets hurt by accidents a lot… does that mean they’re bad?”
I honestly felt cold all over.
I asked him who told him that.
But before he could answer, my daughter called his name sharply from the kitchen.
The look on his face changed immediately. Blank. Careful.
Same exact look he used to get as a little boy after breaking something and trying not to cry.
That night I barely slept.
Next morning I called the school counselor myself.
By Friday, CPS was at the apartment.
Turns out the “accidents” weren’t just burns.
And my daughter’s boyfriend had moved in three months earlier.