Anybody in the world could see that Lip Gallagher desperately wanted to be a father. But nobody, not even himself, knew if he actually wanted to have kids, or just prove that he could raise a child better than his parents.

Either way, it was clear that Lip was struggling the first few weeks that Freddie was brought home. He was running on fumes - of his cigarette smoke, that was. Falling asleep while taking a shit was not what he had meant to do.

He was a sleep deprived mess that was taking care of a newborn entirely by himself, with no diapers, no sleep, and a fucking useless family. It was wearing him down.

You had only just been discharged from the hospital, ordered on bed rest by the doctor. It was horrible not being able to be a part of your child’s first weeks; you were anxious, and rightfully so.

So when Lip came into the bedroom, his face screwed up in tears, blubbering about how he “almost dropped him” and “shouldn’t be allowed near his own child,” you knew that something was really wrong.

“He probably hates me,” Lip practically whimpered, standing at the foot of the bed and looking at you as if he were expecting you to “hate him” as much as his three week old son for slipping in the shower.