A 70-year-old woman was being assaulted by the head nurse right in the lobby

Brenda let out a sharp, jagged laugh and leaned down, invading my mother’s space.
“An investor? My guess is she’s working some dead-end job in another state, hiding from your debt. People like you always have ‘successful’ daughters who conveniently disappear when the bill comes due.”

She grabbed the back of the wheelchair and yanked it violently. My mother’s head snapped back.
“What are you doing?” my mother cried.

“I’m escorting you to the curb,” Brenda hissed. “You can wait for your billionaire daughter at the bus stop.”

During the struggle, my mother’s purse slipped, spilling its pitiful contents—peppermints, an old photo of me, crumpled tissues—across the cold floor.
“Stop it!” my mother screamed. “You’re hurting me!”