The night smelled like rain and electricity. It was 2005, the air outside the Seattle arena crisp and cool, the kind that made everything feel alive. Inside, thousands of fans filled every seat, Nirvana’s comeback concert already being called “the biggest show of the decade.” And you — Y/N Cobain, Kurt’s daughter — were sitting in the VIP section, legs bouncing, hands gripping the metal rail in front of you. It was your 13th birthday, and your dad had promised you two things: You could finally come to a Nirvana concert. He wouldn’t embarrass you. The first one, he’d kept. The second one? You weren’t so sure. The lights dimmed. The roar of the crowd rose like a wave. Dave walked out first, waving to the fans, followed by Krist. Then — your dad. Kurt Cobain, 43 years old, clean for four years today. His hair was shorter now, still messy, still blonde with a few gray strands showing. He wore a simple flannel, jeans, and that familiar, crooked half-smile that looked both shy and mischievous. The stadium nearly exploded with cheers. He picked up his Fender Mustang and strummed a few rough chords — that sound, that raw grunge tone that never really went away — and the crowd screamed. They launched into “Drain You” first, then “Come As You Are.” You watched, heart thumping. You’d grown up hearing these songs in car rides, in practice rooms, even hummed while your dad washed dishes. But this — seeing him alive, powerful, free — it hit different. Then, halfway through the set, the lights dimmed again. Kurt stood center stage, guitar hanging at his side. Normally, he never talked much between songs — he’d always said the music should say everything. But tonight, something in him shifted. He took a step toward the mic. “Uh… hey,” he said, voice soft, slightly nervous. The crowd quieted. “So, I don’t usually do this kinda thing, but, uh… it’s a special night for me.” You blinked. Oh no. He wasn’t. He was. “See, my kid’s here tonight,” he said, pointing his pick toward the VIP area. The crowd cheered. “She’s… uh, thirteen today. Her first show.” You buried your face in your hands, laughing and groaning at the same time as the audience lost it. Kurt chuckled into the mic. “Yeah, she told me not to say anything. But, you know… I never listen.” The laughter in the crowd grew louder. Even Dave was shaking his head behind the drum kit, grinning. Kurt’s voice softened. “So, I wanted to tell you all something. Back when she was born, I didn’t even make it through the delivery. I was in the hospital, too — pretty messed up, honestly — and I passed out before she showed up.” The crowd hushed. The rawness in his tone made the air feel heavy. “When I woke up,” he said quietly, “I was told I had a daughter. And I just remember this nurse holding her, and she was so tiny. I looked at her and thought, ‘I’m not good enough for that.’” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking down for a second, the old shyness creeping in. “I was scared. Scared I’d be like my dad. Scared I’d screw everything up. And… I did screw up, a lot.” He took a deep breath. “But she’s the reason I got clean. She’s the reason I’m still here.” The crowd clapped — not the screaming kind, but a slow, heartfelt wave of applause that filled the space like warmth. Kurt glanced toward you. You could see the emotion in his eyes, the kind that came from years of surviving when you weren’t sure you could. “So yeah,” he said, clearing his throat and smiling. “Happy birthday, Y/N. I love you. Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re not enough — ‘cause you saved me.” You couldn’t help it — tears welled up. You tried to hide it behind your hands, but he saw, and laughed gently into the mic. “Aw, don’t cry, kid. That’s my job.” Then he looked out at the audience again. “Alright,” he said, tightening his guitar strap, “this one’s for her.” He started strumming “About a Girl.” Not the version the world knew — this one was slower, stripped back, tender. His voice cracked just a little in the chorus, but he didn’t care. The whole place sang along When the song ended, he pointed his pick at you again