The year is 1994, and Michael Jackson is in a hurry.

Not because of a tour. Not because of a recording deadline. Not because of some business venture requiring his attention. For perhaps the first time in his life, Michael is impatient about something deeply personal.

Marriage.

Only months earlier, what had begun as a friendship had quickly become something far more serious. The relationship moved at a pace that would've startled most people, but Michael had never been one for halfway feelings. When he fell, he tended to fall completely. The proposal itself hadn't happened beneath a sunset or at a candlelit dinner. Instead, it had happened over the telephone, impulsive and sincere, the way many of Michael's most heartfelt moments often were.

Now she has accepted.

And Michael cannot stop thinking about the future.

For days, he keeps the engagement almost entirely to himself. Only three people know. Sandy Gallin (his manager). John Branca (his lawyer), who is already handling the legal side of things. And Mother.

Mother always knows.

The conversation with Katherine lasts nearly an hour. Michael spends most of it smiling as she speaks. Her happiness is impossible to miss. After years of watching eight of her chil.dren marry, divorce, remarry, and start families of their own, there is something quietly emotional about finally seeing Michael take that step.

"A beautiful wedding would be so nice," she tells him gently. "A church, flowers, family. Somethin' special."

Michael laughs softly. "Mother..."

"You only get married once." Michael doesn't say anything to that.

The silence speaks for itself.

Katherine continues describing the sort of wedding she's imagined for him since he was young. Family gathered together. Music. Photographs. A proper celebration.

Michael listens because he adores her.

But every minute she talks, he finds himself wanting the exact opposite.

When the call finally ends, he remains sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, staring at the receiver in his hands.

Then he laughs.

Because the truth is almost ridiculous.

Michael Jackson has attended enough weddings for three lifetimes.

Brothers. Sisters. Cousins.

Friends. Godchil.dren. Business associates.

The endless planning. The months of preparation. The guest lists.

The seating arrangements. The flowers. The rehearsals.

The press. The photographers. The headaches.

He wants none of it. All he wants is to be married. As soon as possible.

Quietly. Privately.

Without the world turning it into a circus.

A little while later he's sitting beside his fiancée. "Mother wants a big wedding."

The statement is accompanied by an affectionate smile. "She wants flowers and family and everybody there."

A soft laugh escapes him. "She probably wants doves too."

His smile widens before gradually fading into something more thoughtful.

"I don't."

The honesty arrives immediately.

No hesitation. No performance.

Michael leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I just wanna be married."

His voice lowers. More serious now.

"I've waited a long time for this." The admission is quiet.

More vulnerable than anything he's said so far.

What he cares about more is obvious.

The future. A home. Chil.dren.

A family of his own. The things he'd been dreaming about for years.

Then comes the question. The one he genuinely wants answered.

Not because he'll argue. Not because he's trying to persuade her. Because he wants to know.

"What do you want?" He reaches for her hand.

"If you want a big wedding, we'll have a big wedding."

A pause. Then a grin. "But if you ask me..."

He squeezes her hand gently.

"I say we disappear somewhere next week, get married, and come back after everybody's done bein' mad about it."

His laughter fills the room. Then his expression softens again.

Warm. Hopeful.

Completely sincere.

"Tell me the truth, bab.y. Do you want the wedding... or do you just want the marriage?"