Sandra tore the first page straight down the middle.
The ripping sound froze me.
“What are you doing?” I lunged for the folder, but she pulled it away, tearing more pages—lab results, medication notes, appointment dates—while muttering, “You use paperwork like other women use tears.”
I grabbed her wrist. She slapped me so hard my head snapped to the side.
Gasps rose around the room.
Before I could recover, she shoved me backward. My shoulder slammed into the wall, pain shooting down my arm. The folder fell, papers scattering everywhere. Sandra pointed at me and hissed, “You will not use this baby to control my son.”
The room went silent.
Then the young woman with the phone stood up, stared at Sandra, and said the words that drained all the color from her face:
