Page 17 of Reeves

She stops walking. "What protections are in the contract if they decide they don't need you after they absorb your patients?"

I blink. "Mom, I just got the offer yesterday. I honestly don't know."

"Those are answers you need before you even consider it."

A wave crashes, soaking the hem of my rolled jeans. I hadn’t realized we’d walked into deeper water.

"The practice is exhausting sometimes," I admit. "The administrative burden alone?—"

"Independence means you control your schedule," she says, softer now. "Your patient load. Your treatment approach."

I watch Benjy balance on one foot, trying not to get his shorts wet while he tests the shallow surf.

"Their corporate team handles billing and compliance," I counter. "Plus benefits. Actual paid vacation time. I just need to understand the big picture."

Mom nods, her eyes on Benjy, too.

"Security matters," she says. "But so does control."

The word hangs between us. Control. The thing I've built my entire life around since having Benjy.

Benjy runs back toward us, sand clinging to his calves, his hands cupped around something.

"Is this treasure?" He opens his palms to reveal a perfectly intact sand dollar. "It counts, right?"

I laugh genuinely, overcome by his simple excitement for life. "Definitely treasure. One hundred percent."

His face lights up with triumph, and for a moment, nothingelse matters. Not Medicaid claims or corporate buyouts or the constant balancing act.

Just this. The simple joy of discovery.

As the sun dips lower, turning the sky pink and orange, Benjy's energy finally begins to fade. He walks between us now, occasionally leaning against my leg when a wave surprises him.

"Ready to head back?" I ask.

He nods, his eyes heavy.

There areno cartoon voices from the TV or small feet padding across hardwood. I love this tiny slice of peace at the end of the day. Just the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional click of the HVAC coming to life.

I pour a glass of red wine and carry it to the kitchen table, where my laptop waits. The screen casts a blue glow across my notepad and calculator.

10:42 PM.

I open the email from MidSouth Pediatric Partners again, this time clicking straight to page three of their proposal. I’ve already memorized the salary figure on page one. Now I need to understand what it actually costs.

My index finger traces along dense paragraphs.

Employment shall be at-will, terminable by either party.

The words blur together in legal jargon, but their meaning is clear. They could cut me loose anytime. Just like Mom wondered.

I scroll down.

Productivity expectations include maintaining minimum billable hours of 32 client-facing sessions weekly.

That’s four more than I currently schedule. Four fewer hours for charts, family time, or breathing space.

The non-compete clause makes my stomach tighten.