I should’ve walked away.

Should’ve told Shane to piss off, should’ve remembered her face when she told me she was pregnant. The way her voice cracked like it hurt to even say the words aloud. Seventeen. And she was carrying my kid.

I told her I’d get clean.

Told her I was done. That I wanted to be better, that I would be—because she believed in me when no one else ever did. Not my ma, not Teddy, not the teachers, not the neighbours watching us all grow up like weeds through concrete. Just her.

But when Shane lit the joint and passed it my way, something inside me cracked.

Like muscle memory. Like a ghost in my hands.

And I was so bloody tired. Of everything. The screaming at home, the belt marks, the punches, ma’s disappointment, nappies to change for wee Sean, beating up pricks for Shannon at school, having to steal dinner from Tesco cause there’s nothing in the fridge but expired milk and vodka.

So yeah, I took the joint.

And then I heard the sound I’d never forget in all my life.

Her gasp.

Soft. Heartbroken. Right behind me.

I turned, slow like the world was freezing around me, and there she was. My girl. My whole world in a school jumper and that look in her eyes like she’d just watched me die.

She didn’t say anything. Just stood there, one hand on her belly like instinct, like protection. Her bottom lip trembling, tears threatening to fall and I—God.

I dropped the joint like it burned.

“Babe,” I started, stepping forward. Shane muttered something under his breath and walked off, thank fuck.

Her head shook. She looked raging. “You said you stopped.”

“I did. I did, I swear. This was—it was just one hit, I was just tired, I—”

“I’m tired too, Joey!” she snapped, arms wrapped round herself now. “I’m seventeen and pregnant and scared and I don’t get to disappear into drugs when it gets hard!”

That cut deep.

Cut deeper than any punch from my da ever had.

I looked at her belly then. Rounder now. Twenty-one weeks. The baby was startin’ to kick, and we hadn’t even picked names yet.

“I’m sorry,” I said, but it came out like it wasn’t enough. Because it wasn’t.

“Sorry won’t keep you clean,” she said. “Sorry won’t raise a baby.”

I felt like I was sinking.

She took a shaky breath. “I believed in you. Even when everyone said I was stupid to date a junkie. Even when you were nothing but broken bones and bruises and rehab slips. I still chose you. I love you Joe, but you’re breaking my heart.”

“I never asked you to,” I said, and I hated myself the second the words were out.

Her whole face crumbled.