It just occurred to me that it has been a very long time since I made use of the continuation prompt. So today each of us gets to continue the story from wherever the previous writer left it. As usual, try to end your section at an interesting point for the next person to carry on from.
In other news, I seem to be having a worse time with this cold than Max (who turned 11 months old today). Which, I suppose, would be my preference.
But I'm about ready to be done with it, thanks.
A missed opportunity.
That's what the others wanted to label it. Stick it in a box, wrap a nice bow around it, stuff it somewhere none of us will ever look, and move on. Dust our hands of the matter and turn our collective gaze toward the next project.
I don't see things that way though. I can't. That's not how I operate.
That neatly labelled box? I know exactly where it is. Our mistakes haunt me. They call to me in the middle of the night, begging me to go back and fix them. Set things right. Get the whole group back on track, get us closer to that end goal.
Sleep is impossible for me. Moving on is equally inconceivable. There is an itch between my shoulder blades that lurks just beyond my fingertips while the others just carry on about our business, as though nothing is wrong. It pushes me to the limits of my sanity... and sometimes beyond them.
So I'm doing the only thing I can do: I'm going back to change the ending to this story.
And it all begins with her.