Brenda was the Head Nurse of the surgical wing, but she carried herself like she owned the zip code. Her scrubs were so stiff with starch they crunched when she moved, and her blonde hair was pulled back into a bun so tight it seemed to pull the corners of her eyes into a permanent sneer. She wasn’t looking at a patient; she was looking at a nuisance.

“The ‘son’ story again, Clara?” Brenda sighed, a sound full of theatrical exhaustion. She didn’t lower her voice. In fact, she seemed to project it so the entire waiting room—filled with nervous families and coughing toddlers—could hear. “We’ve heard about this mysterious, successful son for three weeks. Meanwhile, your account is fifteen thousand dollars in the red. This is a private facility, not a county dumping ground.”

“He’s coming,” my mother insisted, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the armrests of her chair. “He’s just… he’s been very busy. He’s an investor. He travels a lot.”

Brenda let out a sharp, jagged laugh. She leaned down, invading my mother’s personal space, her face inches from Clara’s. “An investor? Is that what they call it now? My guess is he’s a shift lead at a fast-food joint in another state, hiding from your medical debt. He isn’t coming, honey. People like you always have ‘successful’ children who are conveniently invisible when the bill comes due.”