Brenda’s face hardened with cold malice. She hated being challenged. Hated that this “charity case” was making a scene.
“You think you can yell at me?” Brenda whispered.

Then it happened.
It wasn’t a push. It was a slap.

The sound cracked through the lobby. My mother’s glasses skidded across the tile.
She didn’t cry—she just sat there, trembling, one hand pressed to her cheek, eyes wide with shock that looked like physical pain.

Brenda stood over her, breathing hard.
“Now,” she said, voice buzzing with adrenaline, “keep your mouth shut and get out, or I’ll have security charge you with assaulting staff.”

The security guard hesitated, reaching for the wheelchair handles.
At that exact moment, the hospital’s heavy glass doors didn’t simply open—they hissed with authority.

A woman stepped inside.