When I arrived at my mom’s nursing home, the receptionist’s words hit me like a freight train. “Your mother was discharged a week ago, Rachel.”
“What do you mean, discharged?” My heart raced as I leaned against the counter, disbelief choking my voice. “I didn’t authorize that.”
Denise, the receptionist, frowned as her fingers rapidly tapped on the keyboard. She finally looked up, her expression troubled. “It’s no error. It says here your sister Lauren signed her out.”
“Lauren?” Her name escaped me in a stunned whisper. “That’s impossible.” Read mroe below
