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

Chapter 4: The Art of (Not) Keeping It Together

"Did you, though?"

Becky shot her a glare before turning back to the mess. "I thought I could make breakfast with one hand. Turns out, not my best idea."

Freen smirked, bouncing Mon gently. "Why one hand?"

Becky lifted her left arm.

Freen gasped.

Because strapped to Becky's chest—secured in the baby carrier—was Boba, their smallest and most spoiled dog, looking perfectly content.

"You've got to be kidding me," Freen deadpanned.

Becky shrugged. "He was whining. I panicked."

Freen could not believe this.

"You're telling me," she said slowly, "that instead of putting the dog down, you decided to strap him to your chest like an actual human baby?"

Becky grinned sheepishly. "It made sense at the time?"

Freen looked down at Mon, then back at Becky. "Our actual baby is right here, babe."

"Yeah, but look at him." Becky pouted, scratching behind Boba's ears. "He's so snuggly."

Freen stared. "You are unbelievable."

Boba yawned dramatically, completely unaffected by the chaos.

"Okay," Freen sighed, setting Mon down in her high chair. "Move over, Chef Disaster. Let me take over."

Becky scoffed, stepping aside. "Excuse you, I had this under control."

Freen gestured to the egg-covered countertop. "Uh-huh. Sure, babe. Whatever you say."

Becky stuck out her tongue.

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By the time breakfast was done (and the kitchen was somewhat clean), it was time for Mon's bath.

And Mon?

Mon hated bath time.

Not just mild annoyance.

Full-scale, rage-filled, betrayal-level hatred.

It didn't matter how warm the water was. It didn't matter that the bathtub had floating duckies.

The second Mon's little body touched the water—

WAILS.

Freen winced. "Here we go."

Becky sighed. "It's like she thinks we're trying to drown her."

Mon kicked furiously, splashing water everywhere.

Freen was instantly soaked for the second time that day.

Becky barely held in a laugh. "Okay, now this is just unfair."

Freen scowled. "I don't know what I did to deserve this."

Mon, as if on cue, kicked again—sending another wave of water directly into Freen's face.

Becky lost it.

She doubled over, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

Freen glared. "This is not funny."

Becky wiped a tear from her eye. "It's so funny."

Mon, still crying, looked straight at Freen.

And then—just to really prove her point—she let out the tiniest, most devastated whimper.

Freen's heart broke on the spot.

"Okay, okay," Freen cooed, scooping Mon up. "We're done, baby. No more bath time torture."

Mon sniffled dramatically, burying her face against Freen's chest.

Freen looked over at Becky. "See? Now she thinks I'm the villain."

Becky, still grinning, shrugged. "Well, you were the one holding her in the water."

Freen groaned. "Unbelievable."

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By the time 7 PM rolled around, the house was finally quiet.

Mon was asleep in her crib. The dogs were curled up on the couch. The kitchen was clean (again).

And Freen and Becky?

They were on the floor, too exhausted to even move.

"This is our life now," Becky mumbled into the rug.

Freen, sprawled on her back, nodded. "Yup. No turning back now."

Becky rolled onto her side, propping her head up. "You still happy?"

Freen turned to her, softening.

"Tired as hell," she admitted. "But yeah. I'm happy."

Becky grinned. "Same."

Freen reached out, lacing their fingers together.

And as they lay there, in the midst of their beautiful, chaotic, unpredictable life—

They knew.

They wouldn't change a single thing.