But she didn’t even look. “You people always have excuses,” she muttered.

The words hit harder than I expected. You people. As if my age, my grief, and my modest appearance placed me beneath basic respect.

“I beg your pardon?” I whispered.

Before I could react, she grabbed my arm and pushed me back from the counter. My heel slipped, and for a terrifying second, I thought I might fall and hit my head.

“You can’t just show up whenever you want,” she snapped. “If you can’t pay on time, maybe you shouldn’t be getting treatment.”

No one stepped in. Not one person.

I clutched my bag to my chest, forcing myself to stand steady. My heart pounded painfully. “My daughter is on her way,” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

Brenda laughed. “Of course she is.”

A few people smirked. Someone muttered, “This is sad.”

I looked toward the entrance, hoping I hadn’t misjudged the timing. Then the doors slid open—and my daughter walked in, wearing a navy suit, accompanied by two hospital security officers.

The entire lobby fell silent.

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