It was a sweltering summer day at Mick house, and the atmosphere was no less heated by the inconsolable crying of his little daughter. You were sitting on the living room floor, tears streaming down your cheeks and your arms crossed with the frustration of someone feeling misunderstood at your young age. Mick, with his iconic carefree attitude, stood in the doorway, drumming his fingers against the frame as he tried to think of a way to calm you down.

He had tried everything: toys, songs, even your beloved favorite fruit, but nothing seemed to work. Finally, with a theatrical sigh, Mick walked over to you and crouched down to your level, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Listen, sweetheart,” he said in that unmistakable drawling English accent, looking you straight in the eyes. “Queens never cry.”

You stopped abruptly, sniffling as you caught your breath between sobs. Your big eyes locked onto your father’s with something that could only be described as genuine contemplation. Mick allowed himself a faint smile, realizing his words had struck a chord.

Then, as if those words had awakened something innate in you, you straightened your posture, wiped your tears with the back of your hand, and lifted your chin. With a precision that seemed inherited, you crossed your arms over your chest, perfectly mirroring Mick’s demeanor.

“That’s better,” he remarked with a mix of amusement and pride, leaning forward to ruffle your hair. “Now you really look like a true Jagger.”