Page 47 of Daddy Next Door

"Do you need anything else?" he asked as I opened the laptop, the screen casting a blue glow over the star-patterned sheets.

"Just you," I said honestly. "Stay with me?"

His smile was soft. "Always."

I opened the design file, the familiar interface grounding me further in my professional mindset while the comfort of the crib and Ethan's presence kept me from slipping back into anxiety. The rejection email was still there in my inbox, but its power over me had diminished. Now it was just information, not a judgment of my worth.

My fingers moved across the keyboard and trackpad with increasing confidence. I adjusted the color palette first, shifting from the trendy, muted tones I'd originally chosen to more vibrant, natural colors that evoked actual fruits and vegetables. The green became leafier, the orange more like fresh-squeezed juice, the purple deeper like ripe berries.

Next, I tackled the typography. The sleek, modern font I'd selected had been wrong for a company that prided itself on cold-pressed, minimally processed products. I replaced it with a slightly irregular font that suggested handcrafting without sacrificing readability.

The logo I left largely intact, but I adjusted its placement and size in the overall design, letting it breathe more naturally within the composition rather than dominating it.

As I worked, Ethan watched quietly from the rocking chair, occasionally asking a question that helped clarify my thinking, offering encouragement when I hesitated. His presence was grounding—neither intrusive nor distant, a perfect balance of support and space.

The changes weren't dramatic individually, but collectively they transformed the design from something that was trying too hard to impress into something that felt authentic and inviting. Not juvenile, as the client had accused, but joyful. Not amateurish, but approachable.

I sat back, surveying the revised concept with clear eyes. "It works now," I said, more to myself than to Ethan. "It's honest."

"It's beautiful," Ethan confirmed, leaning forward to see the screen better. "You've captured something essential about the product."

I nodded, satisfaction warming me from the inside. "They said they wanted sophisticated, but what they really need is authentic. People don't buy juice because it makes them feel elegant. They buy it because it makes them feel good—healthy, energized, happy."

"Just like little space makes you feel," Ethan observed gently.

The parallel hadn't occurred to me, but he was right.

I composed a new email, attaching the revised concept. My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I considered what to say. No apologies, no defensiveness—just confidence in my professional judgment.

"I've reconsidered our approach to your rebranding and created this revised concept that I believe better captures the authentic, vibrant nature of Vitality Juice. The adjustments emphasize the natural, energizing qualities of your products while maintaining a clean, professional presentation. I look forward to your thoughts."

I hit send before I could overthink it, then closed the laptop with a decisive click. The weight that had crushed me earlier was gone, replaced by a tired but peaceful certainty. I'd done my best work. Whether they recognized it or not was beyond my control.

“You know what though, Daddy?”

“What’s that.”

“After they agree to my design, and after they pay me, I’m going to find new clients and drop them.”

“You are?”

“Mmmhmm. They shouldn’t have said an email that was so mean after agreeing to my preliminary designs.”

"Proud of you," Ethan said simply, reaching through the crib rails to squeeze my hand.

I squeezed back, too tired for words but grateful beyond measure for this man who had created a space where I could be both vulnerable and strong, both little and accomplished. Who had somehow known that what I needed most wasn't more pressure to perform but permission to play.

As sleep reclaimed me, gentler this time without the weight of professional crisis, my last coherent thought was a recognition of how completely Ethan had come to understand me—all of me, the professional and the little girl, the capable adult and the child who sometimes needed a safe place to fall apart.

And how lucky I was to have found him.

***

Thepingofanincoming email woke me from my nap. I blinked in the dimming light of Ethan's nursery, disoriented for a moment by the star-patterned sheets. My laptop sat open beside me, the screen having gone to sleep while I did. I nudged the trackpad, and the display flared to life, showing my inbox. The newest message sat at the top, sender line reading "Marcus Chen - Vitality Juice." My heart stuttered, then raced. I clicked it open, bracing for another rejection.

"Lily - THIS IS IT! Exactly what we've been trying to articulate. The authentic feel, the energy, the balance between approachable and professional. The whole team is thrilled. Please proceed with developing the full brand package as discussed. Sorry for any confusion with our previous feedback."

I read it twice, then a third time, making sure I hadn't misunderstood. They loved it. Not just accepted it—loved it. The relief was so intense it made me dizzy.

---