When the Story Continues (Sequel to When the Script Changes)

Parenthood was a lot of things—rewarding, magical, life-changing.

But most of all? It was messy.

Freen had always considered herself a relatively put-together person. She was organized, efficient, someone who thrived in structure. But now, structure had been replaced by survival mode.

And today?

Today was a disaster.

It all started at 6:03 AM when Mon, their tiny, beautiful, unpredictable daughter, decided that sleep was, in fact, overrated.

Her wails jolted Freen awake like an air raid siren, sending her into immediate panic mode.

Freen scrambled out of bed, practically tripping over her own feet in her rush to reach the nursery. Becky groaned, burying her face into the pillow.

"Your turn," she mumbled.

Freen didn't argue. She had lost track of whose turn it actually was.

By the time she reached the crib, Mon was already kicking her little legs, fists flailing dramatically.

"Good morning, drama queen," Freen whispered, scooping her up.

Mon blinked up at her, wide-eyed, still sniffling.

Freen sighed. "Are you hungry? Or are you just messing with me?"

A soft hiccup. A tiny pout.

And then—projectile spit-up.

Right down Freen's shirt.

She froze. Stared down at the warm, sticky mess now soaking through her pajama top.

Mon, completely unfazed, cooed.

Freen groaned. "Unbelievable."

Becky's voice, still muffled by the pillow, floated from the bedroom. "She got you, didn't she?"

Freen sighed dramatically, walking back toward the room. "It's too early for this."

Becky lifted her head, taking one look at Freen's soaked shirt before bursting into laughter.

"Wow," she smirked. "She got you good."

Freen scowled. "Laugh it up, babe. You're next."

Becky smirked. "Nope. I'm on breakfast duty."

Freen narrowed her eyes. "Are you, though?"

"Yup," Becky grinned, already climbing out of bed. "Now go. Change your shirt before it seeps into your soul."

Freen muttered under her breath as she turned toward the bathroom.

This was going to be a long morning.

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By the time Freen returned, fresh shirt on and Mon happily babbling in her arms, Becky was in the kitchen.

Sort of.

More accurately, she was struggling.

Freen stopped in the doorway, watching as Becky frowned at the chaotic countertop—milk splattered on the surface, pancake batter dripping from a bowl, eggshells everywhere.

Freen raised an eyebrow. "Uh... what exactly is happening here?"

Becky looked up, sighing dramatically. "I had a plan."