Three Days on the Pediatric Ward Showed Me What My Mother Tried to Steal From My Son
“Did she ask for anything else?” I asked, sliding the sheet back across the wood.
“She asked for all future paper billing statements to go to her home address instead of Maple Lane,” the clerk said.
“Please keep the hold in place,” I said.
“It’s locked now,” the clerk said, filing the signed yellow sheet in a black binder.
“No one changes this file unless you’re standing at this desk.”
I rode the elevator back up to the pediatric unit on the fourth floor.
The vinyl seat of the bedside chair creaked softly as I sat down.
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