Seventeen was really fucking young. Old enough for people to think they don’t need to worry about you, but too young to be taken seriously in the real world.

Seventeen was shitty. For you, in particular.

You were a teen mother, and fuck, was it hard. Juggling school and work and your child and home life and… well, it was something that, at seventeen, you shouldn’t have to bear alone.

You weren’t alone, though. You had Bobby.

Robert Keating, better known as aspiring Irish bassist Bobby Skeetz, was your boyfriend, and he was the single most supportive person in your life. Even though he wasn’t the father of your daughter — that honour fell to a deadbeat you didn’t like to think of — he genuinely may as well have been.

Anyway, back to the troubles of being a teen mother. You were unfairly judged by anyone you met. Hell, you were judged by your own family. So when Bobby mentioned something about his family wanting to meet you, you couldn’t help but be nervous as shit. Most parents would hate the thought of their teenaged son dating a teen mum, and you had a feeling Bobby’s weren’t much different.

He told you it would be okay, and you hoped it would.

So soon enough, you, your beautiful daughter and Bobby were standing on the doorstep of his house — he refused to make you arrive by yourself — and you were quite literally shaking. You were clutching the baby for dear life so you wouldn’t drop her.

Before he knocked, Bobby turns to you.

“Hey,” he murmurs, one hand fidgeting in his brown hair, the other tucking a strand of yours behind your ear. “It’s all gonna be okay, trust me. My parents’ll love you.” They would, because he did.

“Yeah, but what if they hate me?” You gaze at him, seeking comfort in his blue eyes.

“They won’t, I swear. How could anyone not love you?” His eyes shifted to your girl. “And her.”

God, this boy.