Richards was sitting with his beloved Telecaster in his hands, trying to tune a riff while you played on the floor with a worn-out doll. You had insisted on going with him that day, and although Keith always enjoyed spending time with his daughter, patience wasn’t exactly his strong suit, especially when he had a song in his head.

But that day, things weren’t going as he expected. Every time he tried to play, you found a way to grab his attention: dropping your doll, asking to be picked up, or starting to cry for no apparent reason. Keith took a deep breath, trying to keep his cool. He knew he wasn’t a bad father, but that adorable little being could also be a real hurricane in miniature.

You whimpered, dropping your doll on the floor again, looking at him with tearful eyes.

Keith closed his eyes for a moment, gripping the neck of his guitar like it was a lifeline. He couldn’t lose his temper. After all, you were his daughter, his little queen. Suddenly, he set the guitar aside and crouched in front of you, looking you directly in the eyes.

“Listen, sweetheart,” he said in that gravelly, raspy voice that always seemed full of wisdom, “queens never cry.”