Page 54 of Physical Therapy

EPILOGUE

Edith

“Boe!” I call out across our apartment. “I’m about to start a video call!”

My handsome husband appears at the office door, a dishtowel tossed over one shoulder and those damn gray sweatpants hanging from his hips.

He tried to replace them a year ago—I pulled them from the trash and put them back in his drawer, washed and ready to wear.

“Come on, ratbag.” He holds both arms out, fingers curling toward him.

The smell of lunch filters down the hall.

“Dada!” Our gorgeous blue-eyed boy gives up trying to walk on unsteady legs toward Boe and crawls instead.

He scoops Deacon into his arms and then enters the room. I lean up to kiss my baby and then tilt my head to receive one from my man.

“I’ll keep your food warm for when you’re done.”

“Thank you.”

He leaves, shutting the door behind them. The faint sound of the two most cherished men in my life filters through the wall as they battle over the highchair, but it won’t be enough for my client to hear.

Six months after our wedding Boe gave up trying to find the perfect job. Three temporary placements and a spell out of work had left him unsure what it was he wanted from life.

As it turns out, being a stay at home daddy is all that he needed. He took to the role like a duck to water, barely a glimpse of the angry jaded man who first walked into my office remaining.

I tried returning to my usual practice after having Deacon, but the distance frustrated me. Especially on the days where I’d be stuck late and miss my baby’s bedtime kiss.

So I moved to digital sessions. My clients come to me from around the world, referred through word of mouth or from one of the few doctors I’ve grown a great rapport with.

I couldn’t ask for a better balance.

The FaceTime icon flashes up, signaling my eleven-thirty is ready to go. I mouse over and click to accept, a smile on my face as I greet one of my newer guys.

“Hi, Sydney.” I lift my hand in greeting. “And hi there, Frank.”

Sydney’s guard gives me a nod.

Yeah. I also treat prisoners now too. After dealing with Boe, it softened my previous apprehension about dealing with those behind bars. I’ve started soft, treating men who are incarcerated for minor offenses.

I’m not sure I could carry the emotional weight of some of the lifers, although the offer is there if I’m willing to accept.

“Did you have visitors this week?” I ask.

Tattooed on the face and with a short-shaven head, Sydney fits the stereotypical image of a prisoner.

“Yes, Ma’am. My momma came by with my baby girl. She knows her whole ABCs now.”

“Wow. That’s fantastic. You must be so proud.”

But if I’ve learned one thing the past few years, it’s that you can’t judge a book by its cover.

“I sure am.” Sydney grins. “She gave me a new picture for my wall.” He turns to Frank for help since his hands are shackled to the table before him.

Frank slips a Polaroid from Sydney’s jumpsuit and positions it so I can see the image. A gorgeous little redhead girl and her strawberry-blonde mother doubled up on a swing.

“Petra said she’s mailed something to you, too. Did you get it?”

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