I lied | Short Story

This is a little short story I wrote for a writing contest that I probably won't enter.  I hope you like it, the prompt was scar. 

I lied to my daughter today.  
        I watched her silently through the open crack in her door.  She arranged her beautiful chestnut hair across her face, trying to hide the raging, twisting marks.  I watched her dainty, pale eleven-year-old fingers slather stolen concealer thickly over the imperfections.  Hot tears slid down my cheeks.  I reached up and wiped my face, pushing the door open further.
         “Are you ready, darling?” I smiled at her as she turned to me, but it felt forced.  There was no joy in her expression like there used to be.  She used to relish going to school.  Now I see only fear and disgust.  And I see the horrible puckered flesh, caked with cheap, useless makeup.
        “No one will notice.”  I promised her.  
        We walked to the car, her small hand in mine.  Her seat belt clicked and she stared resolutely ahead.  She didn’t trust me anymore.  The engine hummed and I pulled out of the driveway.
        It had been such a quiet evening.  The air was still and warm on my skin, even as the sun went down.  I had tucked my girl into bed and I went onto the porch for a smoke.  I knew I shouldn’t, I promised her I’d quit.  I tried, I really did, but I couldn’t.  I couldn’t stop.  I barely noticed the thoughts swirling through my head anymore.  There was just too much to think about.  Before I knew it my fag was gone so I flicked the stub into the garden. 
       I never used to understand how people fell asleep the moment their head hit the pillow, it always took me at least half an hour before I finally began to drift off, but that night I crashed into oblivion far more quickly than ever before.  It might have been the heat.
      I woke to the scream.  I sat up groggily but then I heard my little girl yelling for me, she was screaming at me to help, help, it was too hot.  I ran through the house to her bedroom that looked out over the garden.  Her bed was by the door.  But there was no door.  Flames crackled and flared up, consuming her books, her toys, her bed, her.  I watched her skin bubble and blister and she tried to get to me. 
        “Dad!” She screamed.
         I snapped out of my stupor and I ran into those flames to save my baby girl.  I saved her, I comforted her.  But when she recovered, I took her to school.  I knowingly delivered her to the questions, the harassment, the staring and pointing.  I told her I loved her. 
         I told her they’d still treat her like they used to.  I told her she was still beautiful.
         I lied to my daughter today.