On the last night, she opened her eyes and smiled. “My John Baby,” she whispered. And then she was gone.
And he walked out. No one stopped him. Because sometimes a baby is the strongest thing in the room—not in spite of the softness, but because of it.
The boss laughed. “You can’t be out, John Baby.”
John didn’t cry at the funeral. He didn’t cry at the wake. He went back to his empty apartment, sat on the floor, and finally let it out—great, heaving sobs that shook the walls. The next morning, he walked into the crew’s headquarters, laid his brass knuckles on the table, and said, “I’m out.”