When I rushed my three-week-old, Olivia, to the ER with a fever, I was terrified. Rocking her in my arms, I whispered, “Mommy’s here, baby. Please, please be okay.”
Across from me, a man in a Rolex sneered. “Unbelievable. We’re really prioritizing a single mom with a screaming brat over people who actually pay taxes?” He added, “She’s probably here every week, wasting resources. This whole system is a joke.”
When the doctor arrived, he went straight to me. “Baby with fever?” he asked. Hearing she was only three weeks old, he said firmly, “Follow me.”
The man protested, claiming chest pain, but the doctor shut him down: “My guess? You sprained your chest on the golf course. Meanwhile, this infant has a fever of 101.7… that can be fatal. So yes—she goes first.” The waiting room erupted in applause.
Olivia was diagnosed with a mild viral infection. Nurse Tracy later brought diapers, formula, and a blanket with a note: “You’ve got this, Mama.”
I walked out smiling—my daughter safe, and my strength renewed.
