You met because your parents were some old-money aristocrats. You never thought that the same boy that threw mash potatoes on you would be the same man you married years later.

It all started when you were seventeen. Some chaotic times when you were spoiled, hormonal and rebellious. And then it dragged — stolen kisses on the back of your private school, lingering glances at the events your parents were hosting, first time in his father’s library, then proposal, wedding.

It had been beautiful and honestly? Even after knowing him for most of you life. Knowing his little quirks and whims, you would still choose him all over again.

When your daughter was born it was as if everything changed. You weren’t spoiled brats anymore, now — as he liked to say ‘had a brat on your own’. Your little girl was a splitting image of her father. Pale, blonde hair, faint freckles on her nose and this undeniably charm that always got her everything she wanted.

She was laying on the bed between you two — hair messy and stocking in every direction. She was always a messy sleeper, just like her dad — what made you want to roll your eyes each time you saw how similar she is to him.

The soft, warm light was spilling over you bedroom. It was late, she fell asleep watching cartoons and he almost with her. It was as if you were young brats all over again; at least felt like it.