The silence in the waiting room became deafening. Other mothers looked down at their phones, terrified of the tension. Mara’s face contorted, a mask of pure, unadulterated vitriol. She didn’t call security. She didn’t walk away. Instead, she leaned down, her breath hot against my face, and hissed, “You people always think you’re so entitled.”
Before I could even process the slur, her hand blurred in the air. Crack.
The sound of the slap echoed off the glass walls. My head snapped to the side. Zara screamed, startled by the sudden violence. My cheek burned, but the fire in my soul was hotter. I looked up at Mara, who was actually smiling, and realized she had no idea who she had just touched.
Part 2
The silence that followed the slap was heavy, suffocating. Mara stood there, chest heaving, a triumphant glint in her eyes. The other nurses in the lobby—Rosa, Sarah, and a few others—stood frozen like statues. None of them moved to help. None of them spoke up.
