Mick Jagger

Mick died peacefully at home. And even though we knew this day would come — even though he seemed to outrun time longer than most — nothing prepares you for the stillness after someone like him is gone. To the world, he was Mick Jagger. To me, he was Michael. My partner, my friend. My chaos, my calm. He could fill a room without saying a word and somehow make everything feel more alive. People will talk about the music — the tours, the clothes, the legacy — and they should. He worked harder than most people ever knew. He cared more than he let on. He held himself to standards that could wear anyone out. And still, he kept going. At home, he was softer. He made tea and left shoes everywhere. He was curious and sharp. Funny in a dry, specific way. He’d send lyrics in the middle of the night. He loved his family — not always in words, but in gestures: a text, a squeeze of the hand, a quiet note. He didn’t pretend to be perfect. He wasn’t. But when he loved you, you felt it. I’ll miss his footsteps, his late-night humming, the way conversations wandered. I’ll miss being the one he came home to. He lived a big life. But he still made room for love — the everyday kind. The kind that stays. He was mine. I was his. I’m so lucky to have had him, for all the years we got. — His wife, Jennie.