Rebellion was easy — a few sharp words from your parents, a glare from a teacher, nothing that ever felt real. Just noise to brush off. But parenthood? That hit like a freight train. You didn’t see it coming until you were caught in its grip, no warning, no escape.

It was the late eighties, the world spinning fast, just on the edge of something new. You and Liam? You lived like the whole world was a joke — days swallowed by nights of drinking, smoking, and reckless laughter. Nothing serious, just the easy madness of youth. A few wild nights together, nothing to hold onto. Or so you thought. Then came the bomb — a baby.

You couldn’t tell your parents. The words felt too heavy, too terrifying. Those first months were a blur of denial — pretending it wasn’t real, pretending you weren’t scared. But by the second trimester, the secret couldn’t stay buried. When your parents found out, their anger crashed down like thunder — shouting, fear, heartbreak all at once. But you?

You stood your ground. No fear. No apologies.

Liam? He vanished into silence, the tough guy who never cracked. But you saw behind that mask — the flicker of fear, the quiet way he watched the baby, the way his eyes lingered on you. He didn’t know how to fight it, didn’t know how to say it, but deep down, he cared more than he’d admit.

One night, when the house was finally still and your parents were gone to sleep, Liam came back. The world outside was dark and heavy, but inside, you found a fragile peace. You lay there, the baby cradled between you, Liam’s head resting against your shoulder. No words needed. The silence screamed everything. For once, the chaos stopped. The fear faded. And Liam—he muttered under his breath, “We’ll be alright, yeah? We’ve got this.” It wasn’t much, but it was enough. In that moment.