I didn’t expect the ER to break me.
It was 2 a.m., and I was slumped in a plastic chair in the same pajama pants I’d given birth in, cradling my three-week-old. Olivia was burning up and screaming so hard her voice went hoarse. I rocked, whispered, fumbled a bottle with one hand. My C-section incision throbbed. I hadn’t slept in days.
“Shh, baby. Mommy’s here,” I kept saying, raw-throated and useless. Across from us sat a man in a razor-sharp suit with a gold watch that flashed every time he complained. “Unbelievable,” he announced to the room. “How long are we supposed to sit here?” He pointed at me. “We’re prioritizing that? A single mom with a screaming kid? I pay for this system.”
The nurse at the desk—Tracy—didn’t bite. “Sir, we treat by urgency.”
He scoffed louder. “I could’ve gone private. My clinic’s full. Now I’m stuck with charity cases.”
I kissed Olivia’s sweaty forehead and tried not to cry.
A set of double doors swung open. A doctor in scrubs scanned the room and walked past Mr. Rolex like he didn’t exist.
“Baby with fever?” he asked, already pulling on gloves.
“Yes,” I said. “She’s three weeks.”
“Follow me.”
“Excuse me!” the man jumped up, tugging down his sleeve to hide the watch. “I’ve had chest pain for an hour. Radiating. Could be a heart attack.”
