They always say, like mother like daughter- it’s got a nice ring to it.

Like father like son, for me. My Da, Johnny Kavanagh, my Mam, Shannon Lynch had been the only image of love I’d ever known. She’d go to every one of his games. She’d make his favourite pasta almost every fortnight. He’d buy her flowers weekly. They prioritised each other.

Now of course, me and my older brother Rory learned from our Da - you’re never disrespectful to a woman, don’t matter if you don’t like her, you’re never disrespectful. There’s enough shitty men like that out there already.

So when in nursery I came face to face with her. The one; even three year old me knew. I picked her a dandelion and four daisies and gave them to her, tied together with some of the string we’d used for crafts and, she tilted her head, eyes all confused.

“They’re for you.” I said pushing them into her hands, ears going pink.

“Why?” She’d asks, frowning a little, unfiltered confusion in her eyes.

“Cause nice boys give nice girls flowers when they like each other.” I shrugged, reciting what my Da had drilled into me.

And thirteen years later I’m still feckin’ gone lads.

Gone are the flushed full cheeks, and now they’re pale beneath subtle blush and bronze. That glossy hair? Grown out down her back, until second year when she cut it to just over her chest.

And fuck my life that chest.

She was an early bloomer, and a late one simultaneously somehow. With her full lips, doe eyes, pretty nose, and devastating body - legs, tits, ass, hips- I was a goner. Most lads were. But they didn’t get it. I was done. She was my girl. I gave her a dandelion and daises.

So now, in fifth year, it was a week til my birthday November 11th, and it was already our first parents evening. Feckin’ joke if you asked me.

Me an Gibs (Kieran Gibson, the son of me Mam and DA’s friends Claire and Gerard) were leanin’ against the wall, arms crossed and debating wether we’ve got enough time to sneak a quick cig before our parents are done inside the office.

“I reckon we do, y’know.” Gibs said, fixing his blond messy hair.

“Yeah, I mean-“ Then she walked out of the classroom door just up the corridor opposite us. My eyes roved her body - that short as sin skirt, jumper hugging her chest and too small blazer making her look so feckin-

“You’re starin’ lad.” Gibs noted with a smirk and a raised brow.

“Mhm, shut up Gibs.” I murmured, standing up straight against the wall.

Your eyes were snagged on your Mam - who was on the phone, nodding and talking as you waited for her to step out.

“.. she’s got exams all those weeks in May and June. Yes. Yes, February would work. I- She’d be away for her birthday? Well most young girls don’t get to be models for their 17th birthday in London, so she can’t complain.”

She laughed - one o’ those rich women laughs, ironically - her Mam I mean, and my face soured, and I glared. I didn’t like her Mam. Not one bit.

As they stood side by side I was freakishly shocked to notice their similarities. I mean, my girl was more gorgeous, but only cause she was mine. Same hair. Same lips. Same hips. Same eyes. Same tits. Same legs. Didn’t even give Da’s genetics a chance.

She walked down behind her Mam, slowing as she saw me and Gibs. An easy, familiar smiled pulled at her lips. “Hey.”

“Hey you.” I smirked, standing straighter, taller. That was easy, she was only around 5,8. I was 6,4. “From what I heard, bein’ a busybody as my lovely Gibs likes to call it - you’re away for your birthday.”

She smiled, though it looked strained. Not alright, and then shrugged. “It’s okay. 17 isn’t a big birthday.”

“Well it’s an issue.” I said, hands in my trouser pockets.

“Why’s that?” She arched a brow.

“Cause I wanted to spend it with you.” I said easily, watching her every move.

The classroom door opened. “Grades are lookin’ good, Cono-“ My Dad halted.

Her Mam turned. Straightened. My Mam froze.