Chapter Twenty -Eight: The Shape of Tomorrow

The months passed like pages turning in a favorite book.

Ellie's belly grew, and so did Jack's sense of wonder. He'd pause during repairs or while closing the garage, his hand instinctively resting over the curve of her body. He started talking to the baby when he thought she wasn't listening—little things like the weather, or what he was fixing that day, or what kind of pie they might like someday.

"You think they'll like lemon?" he whispered once.

Ellie grinned from the doorway. "They'll love it. It'll be in their blood."

Their world slowed. Softer days. More shared silences. Fewer late nights and more early mornings—Jack making breakfast, Ellie reading names out loud from books.

One afternoon, Clara from the bakery organized a surprise baby shower in the back of the diner. The whole town came. Miss Ruth brought a handmade quilt. The mayor gave them a baby-sized pair of cowboy boots. And someone—Ellie never figured out who—left a letter on the cake table that simply said: "Every love story is a map. Yours led us all home."

Ellie cried. Jack held her hand.

The nursery came together slowly. Jack painted the walls soft sky blue. Ellie hung Polaroids above the crib—images of the town, the oak tree, the garage, their porch swing. A life in still frames.

One night, as they lay in bed, Ellie whispered, "Are you scared?"

Jack was quiet. Then, "Yeah. Terrified. But not of being a dad. Of not being enough."

She reached for his hand. "You are. You always have been."

The next morning, Ellie went into labor.

It was long. Painful. Beautiful. Snow fell outside as Jack whispered encouragements, held her hand, and refused to leave her side.

And when it was over, and Ellie held their daughter against her chest, Jack cried openly for the first time in years.

They named her June.

Tiny. Loud. Alive.

She had Ellie's eyes and Jack's calm. And when she gripped Jack's pinky finger for the first time, the man who once thought he was finished with love knew he'd only just begun.

That night, as the nurses left and the snow continued to fall, Jack looked down at his sleeping wife and daughter and whispered, "We're a story I'll never stop reading."

Ellie stirred, smiled without opening her eyes, and whispered back, "Then let's keep writing."

And so they would.

Together.

Forever.