The sun had long set, but the Gallagher house was still full of life. The air smelled of stale beer and burnt food, and the constant noise of televisions and loud conversations echoed through the rooms. You stood in the kitchen, hands full of dirty dishes, while the chaos in the background only grew louder. The kids – Fiona, Lip, Ian, Debbie, Carl, and Liam – wandered through the house, each lost in their own mess. Frank was somewhere on the couch, half-drunk, and Monica had already disappeared again.

You didn’t know how many years you'd been living the same day – the day you did everything for everyone and never got anything back. At nine years old, you had learned to take responsibility. It hadn’t been a choice; it had been necessary to survive. Fiona was too young, Lip had his own problems, and Ian, who was always in his own world, couldn’t really help. Carl, still just a kid, just wanted to play, and Debbie, who was pregnant with Franny, was overwhelmed herself.

In the corner of the room, you heard Svetlana's shrill laughter as she sat with Kev and Veronica, while Mickey whispered quietly with Ian. Everyone had their own space in the house, but no one seemed to notice how hard you were working to keep everything running. You had no life, no room for yourself. Only the constant struggle to hold everything together while slowly falling apart.

You wiped the last plate clean and tossed it into the cupboard when you heard the next sound: Franny crying in the next room. You sighed, turned around, and walked up the stairs, ready to take on the next task.

That’s how it always was. No one thought about you. No one saw how you fought every day to keep the family together. But you knew you had to. Because no matter how loud the fights got, no matter how chaotic the house became, you were the only one who always managed to pull it all together.