Unknown Child

13

Michaela stared out the window as the car wound through the quiet streets of Encino. Her stomach fluttered with a nervous excitement that made her press her palms to her jeans, trying to smooth herself down—physically and emotionally.

It had been a while since she'd been to her grandmother Katherine's house. Not because she wasn't welcome. No, the doors had always been open. But because she hadn't been ready. Not after losing her dad. Not after being thrown back into a life she barely recognized.

"Almost there," the driver said with a warm smile.

Michaela nodded, then turned her attention back to the familiar gates just coming into view. The Jackson home stood still and proud, like a memory preserved in time. The last time she'd been here, her dad had opened that front door with a goofy grin and a warm embrace.

This time, it would be different.

The car pulled up, and before she could even get the door open, it flew wide and a blur of brown curls and long limbs tackled her into a hug.

"Mya!!" Paris squealed, her arms wrapping tightly around Michaela's neck.

Michaela laughed as she stumbled back. "Okay, okay! Let me get out the car first, crazy."

"Too late," Prince said from behind, smirking as he leaned against the porch railing. "She was watching the street all morning."

"I was not," Paris said, still hugging her. "Okay, maybe I was."

Michaela pulled her into another tight squeeze. "I missed you, little sister."

"We missed you too," Prince said, walking over now. He was taller than she remembered, voice a little deeper. He gave her a firm but shy hug, and she squeezed him with more warmth than he expected.

"And where's the littlest one?" Michaela asked.

As if on cue, Blanket peeked around the doorframe, half-hiding behind a curtain.

"Come here, B," she called.

He ran over full speed, launching himself at her legs. "Myaaaaa!"

She picked him up, swinging him into her arms. "You're so big now. What are they feeding you over here? Jet fuel?"

Blanket giggled. "Grandma says I grow because I pray."

Michaela smiled. "That too, little man. That too."

From the doorway, Katherine Jackson stood watching, a gentle smile on her face. "Come on inside, baby," she said. "I made sweet tea and lunch. You must be starving."

Michaela stepped over the threshold, her chest feeling lighter already. The house smelled like baked bread and gardenias. Familiar. Safe.

"You were gone forever," Paris pouted.

"It was one month," Michaela said with a grin, dropping her overnight bag. "But yeah, forever."

"You missed Blanket's performance," Prince added. "He sang 'Man in the Mirror' at school. Grandma cried."

"Only a little!" Blanket piped up proudly. "Did you hear about my high note?"

Michaela laughed, "You better show me later."

They all sat around the kitchen table—Paris holding Michaela's hand, Prince asking if she remembered how to play Uno, Blanket insisting she sleep in his room because "my bed has the softest blankets in the world, Mya, please."

Katherine just watched them, her heart full. When Michaela had come back into their lives, it was like a missing note in a song had finally been played.

Later that afternoon, after a chaotic game of Uno (Blanket kept cheating), and a backyard dance-off that ended in laughter and grass-stained knees, Michaela sat on the porch swing with Prince.

He nudged her lightly. "You okay? You look like you're gonna cry or something."

"I'm okay," Michaela said softly. "Just... this feels good. Normal. I don't get a lot of that."

Prince nodded. "Well, you do here."

Michaela glanced over at him. "I don't know what's happening with Mom... with therapy and all that. But when I'm here, I don't have to think about all that."

He smiled gently. "You don't have to carry it all either, you know. We got you."

Blanket ran outside then, shouting, "Who wants to build a fort in the living room?!"

Paris followed behind him, dragging a pile of blankets. "Only if Mya helps!"

Michaela stood up, grinning. "Let's go build the biggest one in Jackson family history."

As she ran back inside with her siblings, Katherine watched from the kitchen window. Her heart swelled knowing that, even in the mess of everything, some pieces were falling beautifully into place.

For the first time in a long time, Michaela didn't feel like the unknown child. She just felt... home.

After lunch and catching up, Michaela slipped out through the back patio. The air behind the house was quieter, still soaked in summer heat and layered with memories. She walked the winding path that led to the small white building nestled in the back—her father's old studio.

The key was still in her pocket. She unlocked the door and stepped inside.

It always smelled faintly of cedar and dust, like untouched dreams. The equipment was older, but still powerful. Tapes, vinyls, and journals were scattered across the shelves. Michaela exhaled and let the door close behind her.

She walked over to the wall where a mounted screen and projector sat. Her favorite thing to do here—when the ache in her chest wasn't too sharp—was watch old clips of her dad. Some from tour rehearsals. Others just him messing around in this very room.

She pressed play.

On the screen, Michael spun around dramatically, then laughed off-balance and collapsed onto a couch. "Cut that out! Don't save that!" he told the camera—but he was smiling.

Michaela smiled too.

"I knew I'd find you in here."

She turned and saw Jaafar standing in the doorway, holding two sodas.

"You brought me a peace offering?" she teased.

He handed one over. "Just figured you'd need something cold before you melted in here."

She sat down cross-legged on the floor in front of the screen. Jaafar joined her.

"How long were you back before you snuck away?" he asked.

"Twenty minutes," she admitted.

He chuckled. "That's a record."

"I just needed... this," Michaela said, nodding toward the screen. "Everything else is so loud. But in here? It's like I can breathe again."

Jaafar leaned back against the wall. "You ever think about recording in here again?"

Michaela looked at the sound booth behind the glass.

"Every time I walk in," she said.

"Then let's do it," Jaafar replied. "Your voice is crazy. You don't even need auto-tune like Prince does when he's clowning."

Michaela snorted. "I haven't written in weeks. I don't even know where to start."

"Start with what's real," Jaafar said. "Start with what you'd say to him if he were right here."

The projector clicked, changing to a clip of Michael helping Blanket do a silly moonwalk.

Michaela's throat tightened, but she nodded slowly. "Yeah... I think I can do that."

They sat in silence for a while. Then Michaela stood and stepped into the booth. She adjusted the headphones, just like he used to. Jaafar pulled up a beat on the old keyboard—smooth, emotional, and simple.

As Michaela stepped to the mic, she whispered, "Hey Daddy... this one's for you."

And as her voice floated into the quiet room, the studio came alive again—just like he'd left it.