The hospital is usually defined by routine. A steady rhythm of monitors, rolling carts, quiet voices trading information in clipped sentences. That night, the rhythm collapsed.
The air shifted into something dense and suffocating, as if the building itself had inhaled and forgotten how to breathe. Phones rang behind the nurses’ station, sharp and urgent. Security appeared at the doors without explanation.
A police officer followed, then another, their belts clinking too loudly in the silence. People moved faster, spoke less. The room that had held my newborn hours earlier became unrecognizable.
My mother-in-law, Margaret, was being escorted down the hallway. She fought them every step. “This is God’s will!” she screamed, her voice cracking against the sterile walls.
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