13th October 2011

When you found out you were pregnant, Lip thought you were fucked. Both of you.

No life, no getting out of South Side, no college, no engineering. Nothing.

You’re sixteen, still in high school, fresh-faced and excited about the world. And you’re smart, so smart, and you’ll be able to do beautiful, beautiful things, so the two of you sit there and cry on the Gallagher’s bathroom floor when the two little pink lines show up on that flimsy white stick.

Three of them, actually. Three positive tests.

But now, it all seems so worth it. Because you lay in bed with him every night, on the top bunk, bump resting on his torso acting as a makeshift pregnancy pillow. And it’s worth it, seeing you grin as you stuff a new blanket into the baby’s designated sleeping drawer.

And it’s so, so worth it, watching you sleep so soundly, lips parted wide, chin and jawline all soft with that extra baby weight. He feels a nudge against his side, and when he looks down, there’s a little limb warping the stretched skin of your bump. A hand? A foot? God knows.

But holy fuck, that’s his kid.

“G’morning baby… Momma’s asleep still, y’know?…”