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

One afternoon in early June, Beatrice returned.

This time she called first.

Jackson answered on speaker while he chased Leo around the couch.

“Jackson,” Beatrice said. “I’m coming by with a gift.”

Jackson groaned. “Mom—”

“Don’t argue,” Beatrice snapped. “It’s a gift for Leo, and… for Ella.”

Ella froze across the room.

Jackson glanced at her, eyebrows raised.

“Okay,” he said carefully. “Come by.”

When Beatrice arrived, she carried a small paper bag and a flat envelope.

She greeted Leo with a warm kiss on the forehead, then turned to Ella.

Her eyes lingered on Ella a moment longer than last time.

Then she held out the envelope.

“I read your essay,” Beatrice said.

Ella’s stomach tightened. “I’m sorry if—”

Beatrice shook her head once. “Don’t apologize.”

Ella blinked.

Beatrice’s voice was quieter now. “I didn’t know,” she admitted. “About Noah.”

Ella’s chest tightened.

Beatrice glanced away, composure flickering.

“I lost my brother when I was young,” Beatrice said softly. “My mother never spoke of him again. She thought silence was strength.”

Beatrice looked back at Ella, eyes sharp but not cruel.

“It wasn’t,” she said. “It was loneliness.”

Ella swallowed.

Beatrice placed the envelope in Ella’s hands.

Inside was a short note in elegant handwriting.

For Leo, for your launch—no strings. For Noah, because he deserves to be named.

Ella’s breath caught.

Her fingers trembled.

Beatrice cleared her throat, then opened the paper bag and pulled out a small, plush lion—new, soft, with a stitched smile.

Leo squealed, grabbing it.

Beatrice watched him, eyes shimmering.

Then she looked at Ella and said quietly, “I was wrong about you.”

Ella’s throat tightened.

Beatrice’s lips pressed together.

“I’m still protective,” she added. “I’m still cautious. But I see now that what you give Leo isn’t something money can buy.”

Ella blinked hard.

Beatrice reached out, hesitated, then rested her hand briefly on Ella’s shoulder.

A small, awkward gesture.

But it carried weight.

“Don’t hurt him,” Beatrice said softly.

Ella met her gaze. “I won’t.”

Beatrice nodded once, satisfied.

Then she looked at Jackson.

“And don’t you hurt her,” she added.

Jackson’s throat worked. “I’m trying not to.”

Beatrice’s mouth softened into the smallest smile.

“Try harder,” she said.

As June arrived, Boston warmed into late spring, and the city buzzed with that restless energy that came when people finally believed winter was gone for good.

The launch date sat on Ella’s calendar like a bright circle.

She tried not to stare at it too much.

But every time she walked past it, her chest tightened.

One morning, Fern texted her.

I’m making you practice your speech. Don’t argue. Also, I bought a dress. It’s dramatic. You’re welcome.

Ella laughed out loud, startling Leo.

Leo giggled like laughter was contagious.

Jackson walked into the room, eyebrows raised. “What’s funny?”

Ella held up her phone. “Fern.”

Jackson’s mouth softened. “Of course.”

Ella hesitated, then said, “I’m scared.”

Jackson stepped closer, voice gentle. “Of what?”

Ella looked down at Leo, then back at Jackson.

“Of standing up there,” she whispered. “Of people looking at me and deciding who I am again.”

Jackson’s eyes softened.

He reached out, took her hand, and held it steadily.

“Then we make sure the people looking at you are the right ones,” he said.

Ella swallowed. “And if they aren’t?”

Jackson’s grip tightened slightly. “Then you look at me. And you look at Leo. And you remember why you wrote it.”

Ella’s throat tightened.

She nodded, blinking fast.

Outside, the city moved on—cars honking, the river glinting, leaves fluttering in warm wind.

Inside, in the quiet of the penthouse, Ella felt something settle.

Not certainty.

Not perfect peace.

But a small, steady sense that she could do hard things.

Because she wasn’t doing them alone.

By the time the week of the launch arrived, Ella’s kitchen counter was covered in drafts, sticky notes, and a stack of fresh copies delivered in a cardboard box that smelled like ink and paper.

Ella lifted one copy carefully, fingers trembling.

The cover showed a cafe corner, soft warm light, a baby in the arms of a woman with a gentle expression, a plush lion near the child’s hand.

The title sat across the top in simple letters.

The Baby Who Stopped Crying.

By Ella Harper.

Ella stared until her eyes burned.

Jackson stood behind her, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

“You did it,” he murmured.

Ella swallowed, voice shaking. “I think I did.”

Leo toddled up, reached for the book, then hugged it to his chest like it was his.

Ella laughed through tears.

Jackson’s voice was quiet. “He’s proud of you.”

Ella looked down at her son—not by blood, but by love—and felt her chest fill until she thought it might crack open.

Then she whispered, “I’m proud of me too.”

And somewhere in the back of her mind, she could already hear the bookstore—the rustle of balloons, the murmur of people settling into chairs, the soft buzz of a room waiting for a story.

A story that began in an ordinary cafe on a rainy Boston morning.

A story that, somehow, had become her life.