The first time you saw Michael Jackson, he was standing on a chair, trying to reach the microphone like it had personally offended him.

Motown was always loud—music bleeding through walls, producers arguing, dancers counting beats—but you had your own rhythm there. Being close to Berry Gordy meant you were around more than most. Whether it was running small errands, sitting in on sessions, or just observing, you had a quiet kind of access people noticed but didn’t question. As the oldest in your family, you were used to responsibility. You carried yourself like it too—calm, watchful, a little older than your years. That’s probably why Berry trusted you to be around.

The day you met The Jackson 5, they were rehearsing in one of the smaller studios. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, trying not to get in the way.

Michael hopped down from the chair, a little frustrated, but the second the music started again, he snapped right back into place—sharp, focused, like he was built for it. He noticed you halfway through the song. Not in a distracted way—more like curiosity.

After rehearsal, while his brothers joked around, he wandered over.

He tilted his head slightly, like he was trying to figure you out.