It was late September, New York air crisp with the first hint of fall, when you finally came home from tour. Your blonde dye had been stripped out in the hotel shower that morning, the bleach circling the drain until your natural hair — your father’s hair — stared back at you in the mirror. Sandy brown, with that soft reddish undertone Yoko once called his secret fire. You almost didn’t recognize yourself, but you knew he would.

Your dad, John Lennon, eighty-five, was already at the apartment when you arrived. He had the kettle on, humming tunelessly, his voice raspier than it used to be, the damage from old bullet wounds and surgeries still clinging to his lungs. The sight of him always stopped you. Not just because he was John Lennon — the world’s John Lennon — but because you knew if fate had gone differently in 1980, you wouldn’t even be standing there.

That’s why you had the tattoo. 1980, December 8th, inked behind your ear, small enough to hide, permanent enough never to forget. Every time you touched it, it was like touching the edge of existence itself.

On the coffee table, you set down a bag clinking with glass. “Got something,” you said, grinning.

He raised a brow. “Not another bloody lava lamp, I hope.”

You pulled out two bottles of Brandy Alexanders, already chilled. “Better. Milkshakes.”

He lit up, laughter rattling out of him. “Ah, you’re a good kid. Just like Harry Nilsson corrupted me, now you’re corrupting me all over again.”

You poured the drinks into glasses, handed one to him, and clinked yours against his. Sweet, creamy, rich — you had to admit, it really did taste like a chocolate milkshake.

Later, the two of you sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch, your tour footage playing on the TV. A fan-made edit: flashes of you in sequined bodysuits, belting into stadiums, teasing interviewers with the same dry wit that once made reporters both fear and adore your father.

John leaned forward, squinting, then let out a whistle. “Bloody hell. You’ve got it — the spark. That look in your eye when you’re taking the piss out of someone? That’s all me, that is.”

You grinned, but the praise pinched somewhere deep. “Funny, isn’t it? I’m all over the charts, but half the comments under my photos are still about my body. Too skinny, too fat, too whatever. I don’t even wear crop tops anymore. Don’t want to give them the satisfaction.”

His face shifted, serious. His hand went absentmindedly to his chest, where beneath the fabric lay those scars — puckered bullet wounds, the long surgical slash down the middle. But you knew he was somewhere else. 1965. The year a critic had called him the fat Beatle.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I spent half my bloody life not eating, puking, starving myself just to shut people up. ‘Fat Beatle,’ they called me. One stupid headline, and it stuck in my head forever. I thought if I got thin enough, sang good enough, they’d leave me be. But they never did. They never will.”

You looked at him, startled by how raw he sounded, even now, decades later.

He turned to you, his eyes sharp, full of that old Lennon fire. “Don’t let them own you, love. Not your stomach, not your songs, not your bloody soul. You sing because you’ve got to, not because some halfwit behind a keyboard says you’re too this or that. You hear me?”

You swallowed, nodding. “I hear you.”

He smirked, but his hand squeezed your knee gently. “Good. Because you’re mine. And if you’re mine, you’re made of tougher stuff than they’ll ever understand.”

On screen, the edit cut to a clip of you mid-interview. A reporter asked how you’d gotten into songwriting, and you’d answered with a deadpan: “I was about five. Said, ‘Pass me the bread, muthaaa…’” The audience laughed, and so did John.

“That’s my girl,” he said softly, eyes shining. “Bloody hell, it’s like watching myself — only better.”

For a moment, silence fell, broken only by the hum of the city outside. You sipped your drink, let the warmth spread, and leaned your head on his shoulder. His scars were hidden, yours were invisible, but both were there