At my birthday party, my sister scalded me with boiling water from the pot.

The Boiling Point of Betrayal

“Trash deserves to be burned. I wish her face had been burned too.”

My mother, Beth, looked down at the white steam rising from my arm and the skin that was rapidly turning red and blistered and said this without a shred of hesitation.

My sister, Allison, had opened the lid of the electric kettle she had been using to make tea and poured its contents directly over me without a second thought. Seconds later, a searing pain like my nerves were on fire shot through me and I screamed, collapsing onto the floor.

Allison slammed the empty stainless steel kettle onto the island counter with a loud bang and clicked her tongue at the wet floor.

“This is the worst. It’s soaking wet because of you. What are you going to do about it?”

She said, checking to make sure no water had splashed on her dress.

“Stop making such a scene, Sarah. The guests can hear you,”

My mother said over her shoulder.

At that moment, Chris, my lawyer, gasped as he took in the sight of me curled on the floor, my arm darkened and burned.

“I’m calling an ambulance and the police,”

He said, pulling his phone from his pocket with trembling hands.

My mother, Beth, spun around quickly, putting on a pleasant mask-like smile as she approached.

“That’s unnecessary. Sarah was just clumsy and spilled the kettle herself.”

But Chris ignored her and had already given the 911 operator our address.

“It’s a severe burn. It appears to have been deliberate. Please hurry.”

The instant he said that, my mother’s smile vanished.

The sound of sirens began faintly in the distance and grew louder by the second. Just as the paramedics burst in with the stretcher, my mother crouched next to me and whispered lowly in my ear.

“Listen carefully, Sarah. This is an accident. You tripped on your own. You know what will happen if you say anything unnecessary, right?”

The footsteps of the police entering the kitchen echoed like the drums announcing the start of a war.

“It’s okay, Sarah. You’re safe now,”

Chris said, but my body continued to shake uncontrollably.

The Fabricated Accident and the Hidden Truth

At the hospital, the attending doctor’s expression darkened the moment he saw my arm. Removing the necrotic tissue and dirt from my burned skin was excruciating, almost torture, even under anesthesia.

Once the treatment was done and the painkillers began to take effect, partially clearing my mind, two police officers knocked on the hospital room door.

“You must be Sarah Walker. May we speak with you for a moment?”

The detective’s voice was calm, but his eyes were sharp and observant.

“We’ve already spoken to your mother and sister about what happened,”

He continued, glancing at his notes.

“According to them, you slipped on the kitchen floor, grabbed the kettle filled with boiling water, and ended up scalding yourself. They say it was purely an unfortunate accident.”

I had expected this, but it was a lie that was too perfectly rehearsed.

“And your mother was a bit concerned that due to recent work stress you’ve been mentally unstable and distracted.”

The detective continued. My mother was trying to paint me as a mentally unstable daughter to cover up my burns.

That way, if I claimed Allison had done it, it could be dismissed as delusion or paranoia. Chris started to speak, but I stopped him with a hand.

“Detective, my mother and sister are lying.”

My voice was hoarse but firm.

“I did not slip. I did not touch the kettle. I was standing six feet away from the kitchen island.”

The detective frowned, pausing mid-note.

“It was Allison who held the kettle and poured it on me. She aimed directly at me, looking me in the eyes.”

The room fell into a frozen silence.

“That is a very serious accusation, Sarah. This is treated completely differently from a simple accident or injury case.”

“I understand, but I have evidence.”

I indicated my smartphone on the bedside table, cradling my aching left arm.

Minutes before the incident, the kitchen was being set up for my birthday party and there’s a pet camera in the living room. The detective’s eyes sharpened.

At home, my mother had installed a high-definition network camera to monitor the dog she doted on, giving a clear view of both the living room and kitchen.

“And there’s a motive. This wasn’t just a fight; it’s about money.”

“Money?”

The detective asked, skeptical.

“Yes, a $350,000 investment and the BMW used as collateral.”

I felt ready for the first time to address the twisted core of my family relationships.

Three years earlier, in the dim office of my father, Richard, who ran Walker Construction, the company was nearly bankrupt. Yet my parents refused to face reality; they blamed the economy, blamed the banks, and refused to admit that their reckless spending was the real reason for the company’s decline.

I was 22 at the time. While still in college, I had self-taught trading and concentrated investments in tech stocks, already amassing significant liquid assets.

That day, I placed a $350,000 check on my father’s mahogany desk.

“So you finally decided to be a good daughter? Took you long enough.”

He snorted, acting as if it were my obligation to provide the money. My mother chimed in.

“Sarah, now you can contribute to the family. Allison brings joy with her looks and charm, but you’ll support us with your wallet.”

I let that humiliating remark slide without expression. I then pulled from my bag a thick stack of documents prepared by my lawyer and spread them across the desk.

“Dad, this isn’t a donation. It’s a business investment. That’s why you need to sign this contract.”

My father frowned irritably and flipped through the documents roughly.

“A contract between family members? Family has nothing to do with business.”

“If you don’t sign, I’ll tear up the check right now.”

Faced with my unwavering tone, he clicked his tongue but reluctantly took the pen.

Specifically, the contract stipulated that all assets purchased with this investment would remain under my first priority lien until full repayment, and if they defaulted, ownership would immediately transfer to me.