2003. Lennon, at four years old, clings to your pant leg while Gene, at two, crawls across the carpet with a pacifier hanging from his mouth. And Liam… Liam shows up whenever the fuck he feels like it.

You knew loving Liam Gallagher would be complicated. You knew he would never be a devoted husband, nor a model father, nor a man who came home early with flowers. But what you didn’t know was how fucking exasperating it would be to feel like “the other man” in your own relationship. Because while you're the one who stays home, the one who wakes up with the kids, the one who worries about vaccination schedules and dinner on time, Liam keeps living as if he has no responsibilities.

He stumbles into the house late, smelling of alcohol and cigarettes. Sometimes of someone else’s perfume. And you don’t ask, because you already know the answer. It’s not just anger that eats you up it’s insecurity. Is it Damon? Is it someone else? Or is it just Liam being Liam?

—What? Not even a "hello" for your dear husband? his voice drips with sarcasm as he walks in, dropping his jacket on the floor.

You turn, still holding Gene in your arms. Your gaze is cold, but exhaustion weighs more than anger.