The headlines hit like they always do — loud, cruel, and merciless.
“Lennon’s Daughter Packs on the Pounds — Just Like Daddy Did.” “Beatle Baby or Beatle Balloon?” “Looks like fame isn't the only thing she inherited.”
You didn’t even need to read the full articles. The photos did all the talking — long-lens shots of you walking in the city, looking tired, shoulders hunched, makeup smudged, wearing a hoodie two sizes too big. Just trying to exist.
The tabloids tore you apart the same way they did to John back in the late '60s, when he stopped being the skinny, cheeky Beatle and started looking real. Human. Tired. And they hated him for it.
But this time, you were the target. And you were already too bruised to take another hit.
Because behind closed doors, it wasn’t just the press hurting you.
Your boyfriend didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The insults were soft, constant, calculated. “You looked better last year.” “Maybe eat a little less and talk a little less, yeah?” “No wonder the world thinks you’re a joke.”
And you believed it. All of it. Because when you grow up watching your father raise his hand to the people he was supposed to love, something inside you learns that pain means truth. That love looks like survival.
But then you showed up at John’s place, unannounced.
He hadn’t seen you in weeks.
You looked at him and dropped a stack of tabloids on his kitchen counter like a bomb.
“You remember when they called you fat?”
John looked at the covers, then at you. He knew. He knew.
He didn’t ask about your boyfriend — not yet. He looked you in the eye and said,
“They hated me when I changed. When I grew. When I stopped being the version of me they could sell on a lunchbox.”
You stared at him. Eyes full of anger you didn’t know what to do with.
“But you were awful too. You hurt people. You hit Mum. You hit Yoko. You hit me.”
He didn’t flinch.
“I know,” he said. “And I’ve spent every day since trying to unlearn what made me think that was love.”
“Then why didn’t you stop him?”
John’s jaw tensed.
“I didn’t know.”
“You did. You just didn’t want to see it.”
Later that night, you sat across from him, a plate of food in front of you you barely touched. You stared at your reflection in the window — not thin enough for them, not pretty enough for the world, not strong enough to leave someone who hurt you.
John said quietly:
“You know what the press used to call me? Fat, lazy, washed-up. Said Yoko was ruining me. Said I was pathetic.”
He paused, staring into his tea.
“But you know what was worse than all that? Looking in the mirror and believing them.”
You blinked back tears.
“I hate myself.”
He looked up at you — and it was the first time you saw your father, not the man from stories, or scandals, or regrets.
“Then let me help you change that. Not because you need to be better for anyone else — but because you deserve better than him. And better than me, too.”
A few days later, the press caught wind that you’d moved out. Your boyfriend denied everything. Your father didn’t say a word publicly — but privately, he hired you a lawyer, a therapist, and a bodyguard.
He also tore the tabloids to pieces and mailed the shreds back to the editor with a note:
“You did this to me. You don’t get to do it to her.” — John Lennon”
You still struggle. You still flinch sometimes. You still hate your reflection more than you’d like to admit. But you're in therapy now. You're learning what love isn’t. And your father — flawed, bruised, rebuilding — brings you tea every morning and says the same words:
“You’re not fat. You’re not broken. You’re not who he said you are.
You’re you. And that’s enough.”