I was walking home from school after another disaster of a rehearsal. It was dark and raining – the kind of rain you get in a film; splashing violently off the road and back onto my already dripping hair.
A flash of headlights and my mum pulled over, cuddled me and popped me in the car. My teacher had rang her and she’d come to pick me up immediately.
My mum, stepdad and I once went on holiday to Southport to visit the Spinnaker tower (or something like that). Ian was scared of heights so I held his hand as we walked over the glass panels on the top floor. Just like he had held my hand over years of falling over, times I was scared and needed help. He was there for me, and I was there for him.
He’s a tough cookie when he needs to be. He cooked, cleaned and chauffeured me and my brother around year after year, taking us in as his own, with little or no real respect from us. In return, we made him cry with our sweet renditions of The Litte Donkey at our school nativities.
My dad was the fun-master. He was the cool guy who took me swimming on the weekends. Anything he cooked, I ate and loved. Anything he did was funny and great. He was cool and an escape from day to day life. He didn’t have to discipline me like my mum and stepdad.
I’d say my parents are the best people I know. After spending so many years trying to avoid them, they’ve put up with my answering back and constant complaints and eventually we’ve become more like friends than parent and child. I bitch with my dad, I sing along in the car with mum, and take mick out of her with Ian.
When I see them we always have a cuddle and a joke and I respect them more than ever.
Growing up I’ve had a bit of a rocky ride, but that’s never mattered to them. They’ve seen my potential, helped me chase any dream I’ve had and taken me in and cared for me when my world turned black and I was the most vulnerable.
Nothing will ever explain how grateful I am for my parents. So when asking why to choose mine, I couldn’t even dream of having it any other way.