Title: Whistle Queen

You’re seventeen, their only kid, and it’s raining outside, the kind of rain that soaks New York and makes everything smell like cold pavement and wet trees. John is pacing around the living room in mismatched socks, hair tied back, glasses slipping down his nose as he rummages for snacks. Yoko is sitting cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a book of her art while humming softly.

Tonight’s the night you’ve been planning for a week: Family Movie Night: How I Won the War (1967). Your dad’s movie. The one where he played Gripweed, wearing those round glasses before they became his glasses. The one he doesn’t like to watch because he says he looks like a “right prat” in it.

You’re determined to watch it, popcorn ready, blanket around your shoulders, your special silver whistle tucked in your pocket just in case.

“Why are we even watching this again?” John groans, dropping onto the couch beside Yoko. “It’s rubbish, you know.”

“It’s history,” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Your history.”

Yoko smiles knowingly, “You were quite handsome, you know.”

John snorts, “Handsome in a helmet with me nose running in half the scenes—”

You roll your eyes as they start bickering about the War Is Over campaign, and how this movie wasn’t “real anti-war” but “a bit of a lark,” and how John should have worn a scarf on set because he caught a cold, and how Yoko thinks the camera angles were interesting, and—

You take out your whistle.

You blow it.

It’s sharp, bright, and immediate. The sound pierces the room like a ray gun, bouncing off the Dakota’s high ceilings.

They both freeze.

John’s mouth is still half-open, ready to retort. Yoko’s eyes are wide, blinking once.

You lower the whistle slowly. “I. Am. Trying. To. Watch.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence before your father bursts into laughter, slapping his knee. “Well, I’ll be damned. We’ve got ourselves a dictator in the house.”

Yoko chuckles softly, covering her mouth. “She’s quite effective.”

You press play on the DVD. The old MGM lion roars, and the opening credits begin. You settle in, hugging your pillow, eyes bright, ready to see your dad as Gripweed—awkward, funny, rolling around in the mud, alive in grainy color, before he was Dad, before he was John Lennon of the world.

He tries to whisper a joke to Yoko as the first scene starts.

You raise your whistle threateningly without looking back.

He clamps his mouth shut, smirking, leaning into Yoko, who’s giggling quietly.

And for ninety minutes, the world is simple: Rain outside. Your parents beside you. Your dad’s past on the screen, stumbling, tripping, and grinning as Gripweed. Your whistle on standby, ready to keep the peace.

When Gripweed dies in the movie, your dad snorts, “Great way to end me career in the movies, eh?”

You roll your eyes but smile. “Shh. He’s dead, have some respect.”

John pretends to wipe a tear, overacting dramatically, and Yoko pats his knee, shaking her head with a small smile.

You blow your whistle once, just for the last laugh, as the credits roll.

And in that moment, with your parents quiet and the TV flickering, you’re exactly where you want to be: In a small, warm room, with John and Yoko, holding your whistle, holding them close— and winning your own little war.