My aunt burned my face with boiling water. Now I’m the one who feeds her.
Rejoice was only eight years old when her life changed forever.
Her mother died giving birth to her baby brother, and her father—a construction worker overwhelmed with work—couldn’t care for both a newborn and a young girl at the same time. So he made a painful decision: he took the baby with him to the city and left Rejoice in the care of his late wife’s older sister.
“It will only be for a while,” he said as he held her small hand. “You’ll stay with your mother’s sister. She will treat you like her own daughter.”
But from the moment Rejoice set foot in that house in Aba, her life became a nightmare.
Aunt Monica was a bitter woman. Her husband had left her for a younger woman, and she carried that anger every day. Her two sons, Justin and Terry, lived well: private school, fresh bread, clean clothes. But Rejoice slept on a mat by the kitchen, wore used and torn clothes, and only ate after everyone else had finished.
“Do you think you’re a princess?” Monica would yell, throwing soapy water at her. “You come into my house and act like some lady?”
Rejoice washed dishes, hauled water, cooked, scrubbed bathrooms… yet still received slaps almost every day. But she never complained. At night, she stayed awake, whispering to her late mother:
“Mama, I miss you. Why did you leave me?”
At school, she was quiet but bright. Her teacher, Mrs. Grace, often told her: “You have a gift, Rejoice. Don’t let anyone make you feel small.”
But Rejoice found it hard to believe. Her back was marked with whip scars. Her arms, with burns. Her cheeks, with the heavy rings of Aunt Monica.
One Saturday morning, everything changed.
Rejoice was cooking rice and forgot to check the pot because she was sweeping the yard. When she returned, the rice was beginning to burn.
When Monica entered the kitchen and saw the pot, her eyes flared with rage.
“Useless girl! Do you know how much rice costs in the market?”
“Auntie, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to, I was sweeping…”
Before she could finish, Monica grabbed a kettle of boiling water and, without hesitation, poured it directly onto Rejoice’s face.
The scream that came from the child was not only of pain—it was the cry of shattered innocence.
“My face! Mama! Mama!” she cried, clawing at the air, rolling on the floor. Her cousins, Justin and Terry, stood frozen in horror.
“Now you’ll learn! Foolish girl!” Monica shouted, dropping the kettle as if nothing had happened.
The neighbors rushed in when they heard the screams. Someone called a man named Kevin, who carried Rejoice to the nearest clinic. The nurses were horrified when they saw her.
“Who did this? This isn’t an accident—this is boiled water! This is cruelty!”
Her face was blistered and swollen. Her left eye completely shut. Her skin was peeling. For days, she couldn’t eat or speak properly. She startled at loud noises, even in her sleep.
The police were called. But Monica, respected in the church and well connected, claimed it had been an accident.
“She was playing in the kitchen. She spilled it on herself. God knows I love that girl.”
No one believed her. But without proof, the case went nowhere.
Rejoice stopped speaking for weeks. When she was discharged, she continued to avoid everyone’s gaze. Monica, unable to deal with the guilt—or the constant reminder of what she had done—sent Rejoice back to the village to live with her grandmother.
Her body now carried visible scars, but the deepest ones—the ones inside—were much harder to see.
That night, sitting behind her grandmother’s kitchen and staring at the stars, Rejoice whispered:
“God… why do the wicked win? Why did You let her do this to me?”
And then she added, barely audible, as if it were a vow:
“One day, I won’t be poor. I’ll never beg for food again. I’ll never live in anyone’s house again.”
The first time Rejoice saw her reflection after the burns, she barely recognized herself. Her skin, once smooth, was now twisted and cracked. Her left eye drooped. Her cheek looked like hardened clay. She slowly touched her face and murmured:
“Is this… me?”
There was no answer.
But the girl staring back from that mirror would rise again—scarred, but not defeated.
To be continued… Watch: [in comment] – Made with AI