The head nurse’s office is small, the walls lined with certificates and awards.
She sits behind a desk, looking over papers as I enter.
“Please, take a seat,” she says, gesturing to the chair opposite her.
I sit, trying to steel myself for whatever comes next.
“Your sister has been very involved,” she begins.
Her tone is warm, yet there’s a formality to it.
“We value her input greatly.”
Her words sting, a reminder of my exclusion.
“I just want to know what’s happening with my daughter,” I manage to say.
She nods, a sympathetic smile on her face.
“Of course. But we have procedures to follow.”
My frustration bubbles beneath the surface.
It feels like a script, rehearsed and polished.
“Can I see her?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
The nurse hesitates, just for a moment.
“We’ll arrange something,” she finally responds.
Her words are vague, noncommittal.
But it’s all I have.
As I leave her office, the weight of the situation presses down once more.
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