I was in the waiting room with other parents at my daughter’s daycare. My 5yo daughter skipped into the room. She looked at the sea of faces until her eyes met mine. I’ll never forget the big smile on her face. She ran to me, hugged my leg, and said, “MOM! ARE YOU STILL writing that story about the sad dog who finds a friend?”

The room chuckled gently, but I blushed. I had told her about it weeks ago—just a bedtime idea I was toying with. But she never forgot.

“Yes, baby,” I said, brushing her curls away from her eyes. “Still working on it.”

She nodded like she understood the importance of it. “Don’t forget the part where the dog finds the rainbow,” she said matter-of-factly.

That moment stuck with me all day. After I dropped her off at my sister’s house so I could get some writing done, I sat at my tiny kitchen table, laptop open, and tried to focus. But the story about the dog didn’t flow like it used to. Maybe I had outgrown it. Or maybe… maybe it wasn’t really about the dog anymore.

See, a year before that, everything in my life had crumbled. I was thirty-two, recently divorced, and had just moved into a rental apartment that always smelled like damp towels no matter how much Febreze I sprayed.

My ex-husband, Daniel, had left one Thursday morning without much of a fight. Said he felt “trapped” and needed to “find himself.” He left me a note next to the toaster and a partial month’s rent.

For months I was angry. Then numb. Then busy. And then too tired to be angry or numb or anything. I was trying to keep things together for my daughter, Mila.

She never asked much. Just for bedtime stories and pancakes on Saturdays.

That story about the sad dog? It was for her. I started writing it when we first moved into the new place. It was a way to make sense of things I couldn’t explain in adult words. The dog was lonely. Then he met a bird. Then they searched for a rainbow. Easy.

But now, hearing Mila ask about it—so innocently, so hopefully—it made me feel like maybe that story was more important than I realized.

I opened the document. Scrolled through the pages. The dog was still stuck in the woods. I sighed.

Just then, a text popped up. It was from Dalia, a mom from daycare. “Hey! I think Mila left her unicorn water bottle in the cubby. Want me to drop it off?”

I didn’t know Dalia well. We had chatted maybe three times. She was always put together in this casual way I admired. Like she wasn’t trying, but still managed to look awake.

I replied, “Thank you! You’re sweet. I can grab it tomorrow.”

She wrote back, “No problem. Also—this is random—but if you ever want to co-write something or bounce story ideas, I’m in a bit of a creative funk and could use a push. You mentioned writing, right?”

That surprised me. I didn’t remember saying that, but maybe I had during pick-up one day.

After staring at my screen for five more minutes and getting nowhere, I replied, “Sure. Why not.”

The next week we met at a quiet little café. Dalia brought a notebook full of doodles and character names. She was working on a children’s book series. I shared my dog story, and she loved it more than I expected.

We met again the next week. Then the next. It became our ritual—coffee, pages, real talk.

Somewhere in between plot outlines and spilled cappuccinos, I started to open up. I told her about the divorce. About how I wasn’t sure who I was without the marriage or the structure. She nodded, listening with the kind of stillness that made you feel safe.

Then one afternoon, she looked at me and said, “You should submit your story.”

“To who?” I laughed. “A sad dog in search of a rainbow? Who’d want that?”

“You’d be surprised. There’s a warmth in it. Something honest.”

She emailed me some links. I ignored them for a week. Then one night, after Mila fell asleep early, I opened them up. Most of them were contests or open calls from small presses.

I stayed up late editing. I even added the rainbow part Mila had insisted on. I hit send.

And forgot about it.

Weeks passed. Dalia and I kept meeting. The story became something of a project for both of us. She even started sketching illustrations just for fun. She was really good.

Then, one evening as I was folding laundry, my phone buzzed. I opened the email, not recognizing the name of the sender at first.

It was from a small children’s publishing house.

They wanted the story.

I screamed.

Mila ran in, confused. “Are you okay?”

“They want the dog story, baby. They want to turn it into a real book!”

She looked at me, eyes wide. “With pages? Like a REAL book book?”

“Yes. A REAL book book.”

She gasped. Then she whispered, “Told you the rainbow part was important.”

I hugged her tight.

But here’s where things took a strange turn.

A few weeks after signing the contract, I got an email from someone named Lora Brice.

She said she was Dalia’s cousin. She had found my name while going through Dalia’s things.

My heart sank. “Things?” I wrote back. “Is everything okay?”

Lora replied. “I’m so sorry to tell you. Dalia passed away last weekend. It was sudden. A brain aneurysm. No warning.”

I dropped my phone.

The grief hit me harder than I expected. I had only known Dalia for a few months, but she had believed in me when I didn’t. She had changed my life without asking for anything in return.

At the small memorial they held at the park, I met her sister and two nieces. I spoke briefly, shared how she helped me believe in my own voice again. How she helped finish a story for a little girl who needed hope.

Afterward, her sister pulled me aside.

“She talked about you,” she said. “Said she hadn’t felt so inspired in years.”

I went home and cried in the shower.

The book was published six months later. It had Mila’s rainbow. It had a small dedication in the front:

“For Dalia, who believed in dogs, rainbows, and second chances.”

It did better than I ever imagined. A few libraries picked it up. A couple schools reached out for readings. Nothing huge. But real. Tangible.

The last twist came on a rainy Thursday afternoon.

I got a letter in the mail. Handwritten. From someone named Grace.

She said she was Dalia’s mom.

She had read the book. Cried through most of it. Then wrote:

“I know you didn’t know this, but Dalia always wanted to publish her own stories. But she lost confidence after a failed pitch years ago. I think helping you finish yours helped her heal in ways we’ll never fully understand. Thank you for letting her light shine through yours.”

I sat at the table, staring at the letter, feeling something shift in my chest.

It wasn’t just a story. It was a thread that tied so many things together. Me, Mila, Dalia, even strangers who read it and felt less alone.

One day, I asked Mila if she wanted to write a story together.

Her eyes lit up. “Only if there’s another rainbow.”

We wrote about a squirrel this time. And a ladybug.

She insisted on a talking flower too.

The moral of all this?

Sometimes the story isn’t just in the pages. It’s in the people who show up when you need them. In the words that remind you you’re not invisible. In the rainbows that don’t make sense—until they do.

Dalia didn’t stay long in my life, but she came at the exact right moment. And she left something behind: the courage to keep writing, even when it feels pointless. Even when you feel small.

So to anyone reading this, wondering if your little story matters—it does.

Even if it’s just a dog. And a rainbow.

And a friend who believed in you before you believed in yourself.

If this story touched you in any way, please share it with someone who might need a reminder that every chapter—no matter how messy—matters.

And don’t forget to like. You never know how far a small story can go.