Crossposted at Mid-Century Modern Moms
I wasn't going to write about Michael Jackson.
Really, truly. I wasn't.
But there is one thing about the whole circus that was the life and death of Whacko Jacko that simultaneously touched and broke my heart.
His daughter's speech at his funeral.
The simple words, spoken through her tears and sobs, spoke volumes to many. It did for me -- but those volumes had nothing to do with Paris Jackson.
It's about MY daughter.
My member-of-the-Dead-Dads-Club daughter.
The Roo-girl walked into my room the day after Jackson's funeral just as the "Today" show was running the clip of a sobbing girl telling the world how her daddy was the best father in the world.
Roo stopped dead in her tracks. Transfixed. Unmoving.
Because Roo-girl's father died when she was a few months shy of 4. She really doesn't remember him much. She remembers that he loved her. But her memories are tempered with the knowledge that he was unspeakably cruel to her mother and her brothers.
I feel dreadful about this, but there are things about her father that cannot be forgiven. She doesn't know it all -- and right now, doesn't need or want to know.
Meanwhile, she is fortunate to have a stepfather who loves her and treats her like his own. She freely acknowledges that Wonderhubby is her dad.
But she watches a friend run across a room -- crying "Daddy, daddy, daddy!" -- and jump into her father's arms ...
And she wonders what that is like.
So Paris Jackson tells the world that her daddy was the best father in the world and she loves him so much.
And I die a little inside.