Being a Gallagher, you're used to being relied on. You're all like an interdependant clan, everyone has a role, everyone would do anything for anyone. Gallaghers stick together.

And you won't admit that it kind of sucks, being older and having to look after everyone else, because no matter how much Fiona and Lip try to pretend that they can handle it, you know that they can't.

So you help, as much as you can, with Debbie and Carl, and sometimes Ian, but he usually goes to Lip. But Carl. Sweet, chaotic Carl. Oh, how he loves you.

You help with homework, and teach him how to wash his hair and brush his teeth, teach him how to make friends, and you're constantly taking away any potential weapons.

And it's a normal occurrence on a Friday night, for you to be sat there as he tells you all about his day, yapping away as he stares at the communal laptop and you run a lice comb through his hair, trying to pick away the little bugs that have made their home in his greasy brown hair.

Where's Monica? Shouldn't she be doing this. Of course she wouldn't, never. But you would. You'd do anything for your baby brother.

"And there was this other boy across the street that I was fighting..., and he started throwing snow at me 'cause he's a pussy, but there was this massive chunk of ice..."

Then there's big brown eyes looking up at you, freckles painted on youthful cheeks, a bruise above the brow and a cut across the lip. Oh, little darling.