I didn’t expect the ER to break me.
It was 2 a.m., and I sat slumped in a hard plastic chair, still wearing the pajama pants I’d given birth in three weeks earlier. My newborn, Olivia, burned with fever against my chest, her tiny cries ragged and hoarse. My C-section incision throbbed, my hands shook, and exhaustion clung to me like a second skin.
Across from me lounged a man in a tailored suit, flashing his gold watch with every impatient gesture. “Unbelievable,” he barked. “We’re prioritizing that? A single mom with a screaming kid? I pay for this system.”
The nurse at the desk—Tracy—didn’t flinch. “Sir, we treat by urgency.”
He scoffed louder. “Charity cases, that’s all this is.”
I kissed Olivia’s damp forehead and fought tears.
Then the double doors opened. A doctor scanned the room and walked straight past Mr. Rolex. “Baby with fever?” he asked, tugging on gloves.
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