Chapter 4 Charli
FOUR
Charli
The Route: The procession moves through the streets of the neighborhood where the person lived. The path is never chosen at random.
The clinic is finally quiet.
For the first time all afternoon, there are no small sneakers squeaking down the hallway, no parents lingering at the front desk with last-minute questions, no therapy balls thumping against the padded wall in the motor room.
The receptionist left twenty minutes ago.
The overhead lights hum softly above my desk.
I take advantage of the silence to clear the last few emails before heading home.
Most of them are the usual mix of parent questions and school coordination. I click open the Career Day email from Westlake Elementary, grateful for the familiar, mundane task. Just another parent engagement box to check.
I’m halfway through drafting a polite response when another message farther down the inbox catches my eye.
The subject line is bold.
Confidential: Practice Acquisition Inquiry – MidSouth Pediatric Partners
I recognize the name before I even open it.
MidSouth Pediatric Partners is a huge pediatric therapy clinic with several practices. Their offices are efficient, well-branded, and about as personal as airport terminals.
I click the email.
Dear Ms. Parsons, We've been following your exceptional work at Pediatric Therapy Solutions with great interest. Your impressive patient retention rates and strong community reputation align perfectly with our mission to expand quality care throughout the Gulf region.
The language is smooth as polished glass. Words like strategic partnership and mutual growth opportunity slide across the screen.
The attached proposal outlines our initial offering, which we believe recognizes the value you've built while providing substantial benefits moving forward.
I’ve never seriously considered selling the practice, but curiosity gets the better of me. Apparently someone thinks what I’ve built here has value.
I click the PDF.
The document loads with a sleek corporate logo at the top. The offer is laid out in clean bullet points.
Guaranteed annual salary with quarterly performance bonuses. Comprehensive benefits. Full malpractice coverage. Billing and compliance handled by their corporate team.
Then I reach the acquisition terms.
MidSouth is proposing an upfront payment of $150,000 for the practice itself. Patient records, referral relationships, equipment, the business name. Everything that currently operates under Pediatric Therapy Solutions.
I sit back in my chair and read the number again.
One hundred fifty thousand dollars.
It's not life-changing money, but it's not nothing either. It would be enough to finish paying off the last of my loans and build a nest egg while maintaining what I'm bringing in every month.
I’d keep doing the same work I’m already doing. Same patients. Same therapy schedule. The difference is that MidSouth would own the practice and handle everything that currently ends up on my desk after hours.
All the parts of this job I hate.
I’d still be the therapist. I just wouldn’t be the one running the business.
Turns out my little clinic is worth something after all.
My eyes linger on that last part. No more late nights reconciling claims after Benjy's asleep. No more anxiety about whether reimbursements will clear before rent is due.
"Strategic partnership," I say aloud, wondering if a partnership is what I need.
I inhale, my fingertips tapping lightly against the desk as the afternoon light filters through the blinds, casting stripes across the proposal on my screen.
I click reply and type quickly before I can reconsider:
"Thank you for your interest. I'm available to discuss this proposal next Tuesday at 3 pm if that works for your team."
Send.
I'm just gathering information, I tell myself. That's all.
But as I close my laptop and prepare for my afternoon session with the Walker twins, the proposal's quiet promise follows me like a persistent whisper.
The waves roll in with hypnotic rhythm as my bare feet sink into wet sand. The late afternoon sun turns the Gulf into a shimmering blanket of gold. Benjy races ahead, his small figure darting toward each new discovery like it's buried treasure.
"Mom! Look at this one!" He holds up a broken conch shell, its jagged edge catching the light. "It's rare. Probably from the deep ocean."
I smile. "Great find, buddy."
My mother walks beside me, her silver bun catching the breeze. The familiar scent of her coconut sunscreen mixes with salt air.
"He's got your curiosity," Mom says.
"And your energy." I laugh, watching as Benjy squats to inspect a piece of seaweed. His concentration is admirable.
The steady pulse of waves against the shore calms my nerves. This beach has always been my reset button. I breathe deeper with each step.
"So I got an interesting email yesterday," I say, keeping my voice casual. "MidSouth Pediatric wants to buy my practice."
Mom slows her pace. "Oh? I didn't know you were thinking of selling."
"Yeah. They've been expanding across the Southeast for the last couple of years."
She studies my face. "What does the buyout actually mean? What would you do if not occupational therapy?"
"It's a standard package. I'd still be a therapist, just working for them instead of myself. They’d acquire the business assets, patient records, equipment."
"Is the salary higher than what you clear after expenses?"
"About fifteen percent more, plus benefits. And a lump sum for the business."
"Is it at-will employment?"
"I assume so. The contract—"
"Is there a non-compete?"
The breeze lifts strands of hair from my ponytail as her questions sharpen.
"I don't know yet, Mom. I scheduled a meeting to discuss details."
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, nothing else 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 are no 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.
Practitioner agrees not to establish, own or operate a competing pediatric therapy practice within 75 miles for a period of 24 months following separation.
I take a long sip of wine.
If I sold and it didn’t work out, I couldn’t rebuild here. I’d have to start over somewhere else. That would mean uprooting Benjy, leaving my parents, and starting over somewhere new if I want to keep practicing.
I grab my notepad and start calculating my current monthly income after expenses. Then I make a second column with the proposed salary with benefits valued.
Then I make a third column with the tax implications.
The difference is there, but smaller than it first appeared.
The proposal offers security, not wealth. I'd get protection from administrative headaches and freedom from wrestling insurance claims at night.
But also someone else deciding how many patients I see each day, someone else making my schedule and someone else owning the practice I built.
I scratch rough circles around numbers, pressing harder with each loop of my pen.
My thoughts drift back to the beach that afternoon. I smile thinking about Benjy’s face shining with the simple joy of discovery and my mother’s pointed questions.
I drum my fingers against the table, the rhythm matching my thoughts.
The house creaks quietly around me. I close the spreadsheet but leave the proposal open on the screen.
I should go to bed. The decision doesn’t have to happen tonight. But the questions keep stacking up anyway.
"Fuck it," I say out loud to the computer. I pull it closer and open a new email.
I take a long sip of wine. If I sold to them and it didn't work out for whatever reason, they could fire me. And then I'd be screwed. I couldn't rebuild here. That would mean uprooting Benjy, leaving my parents, and starting over somewhere else if I want to keep practicing.
I hit reply and start typing.
Dear Mr. Henderson,
I stop, delete, and try again.
Dear Dr. Henderson,
My lips press together as I craft each sentence with surgical precision.
Thank you for the comprehensive proposal regarding MidSouth Pediatric Partners' interest in acquiring Pediatric Therapy Solutions. Before our scheduled meeting next Tuesday, I have several questions that would help me evaluate this opportunity properly:
1. What specific protections exist for me as an employee following the acquisition? Please clarify the severance terms should MidSouth terminate my employment within the first two years.
2. The non-compete clause mentions a 75-mile radius restriction for 24 months. Is this negotiable in terms of both geographic scope and duration?
3. Is the buyout payment contingent upon my continued employment with MidSouth? If I were terminated six months after acquisition, would any portion need to be returned?
4. The productivity expectation of 32 weekly client sessions appears non-negotiable. What occurs if this threshold isn't consistently met due to cancellations or scheduling limitations beyond my control?
I read through each question twice, adding one final inquiry.
5. Does the proposed salary structure include annual cost-of-living adjustments or performance reviews with potential increases?
I look forward to discussing these details during our meeting, but advance clarification would allow our conversation to be more productive.
Sincerely,
Charli Parsons, PT
Pediatric Therapy Solutions
I read it once more before clicking send. The whoosh is strangely comforting in the quiet room. It lets me check off my list instead of wallowing in my own head.
Closing the laptop, darkness reclaims the space. The refrigerator hums in the kitchen, a steady, dependable sound that's become the background noise of my life.
I drink the last of my wine and set the empty glass beside the laptop.
When I first opened the email earlier, the offer looked like an escape. Someone else handling the paperwork and the billing while I kept doing the work I actually trained for sounded like a dream.
Now it looks like something else. It's not a solution, but a trade.
The thing about control is that once you give it away, getting it back isn’t always an option.
I turn off the kitchen light and head for bed, still not sure which side of that trade I’m standing on.