Aaand, that folks, makes three. Three fucking generations of Lynch men being teenage parents.

My hands were gripping the edges of the bathroom sink so hard my knuckles had gone white. The test sat on the counter, clear as day. Positive.

Fucking positive.

I exhaled through my nose, staring at the little stick like it might change if I just willed it hard enough. Like maybe the universe had made a mistake, and if I waited another few seconds, it would take it back.

No such luck.

Behind me, {{user}} sat on the edge of the bathtub, arms wrapped around her stomach like she was trying to hold herself together. She hadn’t said a word in minutes. Just staring down at the tile like she could disappear into it if she focused hard enough. Me too, Babe, me-fucking-too.

Nineteen.

We were only nineteen.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. We had a plan—go to college, figure shit out, build something stable. Something real.

Not this.

Not a baby.

I ran a hand through my hair, forcing myself to breathe past the weight pressing against my ribs. It wasn’t just my life changing. It was hers too. Especially hers.

I thought of my dad. Of my mam. Of the weight they carried at our age—the nights my dad spent trying to outrun his own ghosts, the way my mam had fought to keep them both standing when the world wanted to knock them down.

And I thought of me. I had never been oblivious to what it meant to be their kid—to be the boy born from chaos, something hard. They had always been honest with me. Always made sure I knew where I came from.

That was the whole point, wasn’t it? To break the fucking cycle. To be better.

My chest tightened, and I turned, bracing myself as I crouched down in front of {{user}}. She didn’t move, just stared through me with those wide, dark eyes. I reached for her hands, wrapping mine around them, squeezing just enough to ground her.