Dyrektor generalny próbował wszystkiego, żeby uspokoić dziecko — aż do momentu, gdy kelnerka zadała mu jedno ciche pytanie…

In March, the idea for the book began to take shape.

It started small.

A sentence in Fern’s notebook.

A drawing Leo scribbled with crayons on the penthouse kitchen table—messy loops and a crooked circle he insisted was a lion.

Ella laughed, taped it to the fridge, and thought, Maybe.

Maybe I can turn this into something.

Not for money.

Not for fame.

But for all the people who had written to her, who had said they felt seen.

One afternoon, Ella sat on the playmat with Leo, reading him a library book about animals.

Leo pointed at a picture of a crying baby elephant and made a sad face.

“Cry,” he said.

Ella’s chest tightened.

“Yes,” she said softly. “He’s crying.”

Leo frowned, then patted the page with his little hand like he could soothe ink and paper.

“Shh,” he whispered.

Ella’s throat tightened.

She looked down at him, and the story came to her the way songs sometimes do—whole and sudden.

A baby who cried.

A room that didn’t know how to help.

And then… a calm heartbeat.

Ella grabbed Fern’s notebook from the coffee table and wrote until her hand cramped.

When she finished, she stared at the pages, breathless.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t polished.

But it was a beginning.

Jackson came home that evening to find Ella sitting at the table with pages spread around her like she’d been caught in a storm of words.

He paused in the doorway.

“You wrote,” he said quietly.

Ella looked up, cheeks flushed. “I think so.”

Leo toddled toward Jackson, arms up.

Jackson scooped him up, kissed his hair, then looked back at Ella.

“Can I read it?” he asked.

Ella hesitated.

This felt vulnerable in a way she wasn’t used to.

Jackson’s gaze stayed steady.

No pressure, no expectations—just truth.

Ella slid the pages toward him.

Jackson read slowly, his expression shifting as he went.

When he reached the end, he didn’t speak right away.

He looked up at Ella, eyes bright.

“This is… Ella,” he said, voice rough.

Ella swallowed. “Is that good or bad?”

Jackson’s mouth curved into a soft smile.

“It’s you,” he said again. “And it’s exactly what Leo needs. What… a lot of people need.”

Ella’s fingers curled together. “I don’t know how to make it real.”

Jackson’s eyes softened. “Then let’s find out.”

They didn’t rush.

They didn’t throw money at it and call it a dream.

They took steps.

Small ones.

Ella attended a free writing workshop at the Boston Public Library, sitting in a circle of strangers with notebooks and nervous smiles.

Jackson didn’t come inside—he waited in the lobby with Leo, letting Ella have the space.

When Ella came out, cheeks flushed with a mix of fear and excitement, Jackson stood and said, “How was it?”

Ella exhaled. “Terrifying.”

Jackson nodded. “And?”

Ella’s mouth softened. “And… kind of wonderful.”

Fern came too, eventually, sliding into the circle like she owned it and telling everyone she was “Ella’s emotional support gremlin.”

Ella laughed so hard she nearly cried.

Over the weeks, Ella learned how to shape the story.

How to make the baby’s cry feel real without making the book heavy.

How to write comfort into the pages without pretending pain didn’t exist.

She rewrote lines.

She crossed things out.

She started over.

And every time she thought, I can’t do this, Leo would crawl into her lap, press his head against her chest, and sigh like he believed she could.

In April, Naomi introduced them to an illustrator.

His name was Owen Grant—Boston-born, gentle-eyed, with ink stains on his fingertips and the kind of quiet that didn’t feel empty.

He sat with Ella at a cafe in Beacon Hill, sketching while she talked through the story.

He didn’t look at her like a headline.

He looked at her like a person with something worth listening to.

When Owen drew the lion, he made it slightly crooked, with a stitched smile and a brave little posture.

Ella’s throat tightened.

“That’s him,” she whispered.

Owen glanced up. “That’s Leo’s lion?”

Ella nodded. “He carried it when he couldn’t say what he needed.”

Owen’s pencil moved softly. “Then we make it the book’s guardian,” he murmured. “The small brave thing that stays.”

Ella blinked, surprised at how much the words hit her.

Owen slid the sketch toward her.

Ella stared at it, fingers trembling.

For the first time, she saw the story not just as words in a notebook, but as something that could exist in the world.

Something that could sit on a shelf and be reached for by a parent at three in the morning when they didn’t know how to soothe a crying baby.

Something that could say, You’re not failing. You’re learning.

When they left the cafe, the air was warmer, the city loosening into spring.

Jackson carried Leo on his hip while Leo pointed at every dog they passed.

Ella walked beside them, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, watching the way people glanced at Jackson and then at her.

Some recognized him.

Some recognized her.

But the looks were less sharp now.

Less hungry.

And when one woman smiled at Ella and said, “I loved your essay,” Ella’s breath caught.

She managed to smile back. “Thank you.”

Jackson’s hand brushed the back of her wrist, a small grounding touch.

Later that night, after Leo was asleep, Jackson and Ella sat on the couch with Owen’s sketches spread between them.

Jackson looked at one drawing—an illustration of a cafe corner, empty chairs, a baby crying in the background.

He glanced at Ella. “This is where it started.”

Ella nodded, throat tight.

Jackson’s voice softened. “You didn’t have to step in.”

Ella swallowed. “I couldn’t not.”

Jackson looked at her for a long moment.

Then he said, “That’s what scares me.”

Ella’s brows knit. “Why?”

Jackson’s gaze was steady, unguarded.

“Because you have a kind of courage I don’t,” he admitted. “You walked toward a crying baby. I walked away from my own feelings for months.”

Ella’s chest tightened.

She reached for her mug, needing something to do with her hands.

“Courage isn’t loud,” she said quietly. “Sometimes it’s just… doing the next right thing.”

Jackson’s mouth softened.

“And what’s the next right thing?” he asked.

Ella looked at him.

The question sat between them, bigger than a book.

Bigger than headlines.

Ella took a slow breath.

“I want Leo to have stability,” she said. “And I want… honesty.”

Jackson nodded.

“You’ll have both,” he said.

Ella’s fingers trembled slightly as she set her mug down.

“And I want to be able to leave,” she added softly, “without being afraid you’ll replace me like I’m interchangeable.”

Jackson’s eyes darkened.

“You’re not,” he said, voice firm.

Ella stared at him. “Then say it.”

Jackson didn’t hesitate.

“I don’t want anyone else,” he said. “Not because I need help. Because I… want you.”

The words landed like a held breath finally released.

Ella’s chest ached.

She didn’t look away.

She let herself sit in the truth of it.

Then she said, barely above a whisper, “Okay.”

Jackson’s throat worked.

He didn’t reach for her like a man making a claim.

He simply leaned closer until their shoulders brushed, and for a moment, that small point of contact felt like the safest place in the world.

In May, the bookstore called.

It was a small neighborhood place with creaky wooden floors and shelves that smelled like paper and dust and possibility.

The owner, a woman named June, had read Ella’s essay and wanted to meet.

Ella walked into the bookstore with Jackson and Leo, nerves buzzing under her skin.

June greeted them with a smile that made her whole face wrinkle.

“You must be Ella,” June said.

Ella nodded, voice tight. “Yes.”

June glanced at Leo, who was already reaching for a plush dinosaur near the counter.

“And you must be the reason she wrote,” June said warmly.

Leo blinked at her, then grinned as if he understood.

Jackson stood beside Ella, hands in his pockets, looking oddly out of place among children’s books and hand-lettered signs.

June led them to a small table near the back.

She listened as Ella spoke about the book—about the message, the tone, the feeling she wanted parents to have when they read it.

When Ella finished, she realized her hands were shaking.

June reached across the table and rested her hand lightly on Ella’s notebook.

“Sweetheart,” June said, voice gentle, “this isn’t just a book. This is a hand reaching out.”

Ella’s throat tightened.

June smiled. “And I’d be honored to host your launch.”

Ella blinked hard. “Really?”

June nodded. “Really.”

Jackson exhaled beside her.

Ella glanced at him, and the look in his eyes—quiet pride, steady support—made her chest ache again.

Leo toddled over with the plush dinosaur and shoved it into Ella’s hands like a gift.

Ella laughed, overwhelmed.

“Thank you,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his.

On the walk home, spring sunlight warmed the sidewalks, and the trees along Commonwealth Avenue had exploded into green.

Leo rode on Jackson’s shoulders, squealing every time he spotted a pigeon.