=| Tom Kaulitz |=

-Commissioner. Now.

He says sharply, without a hello. Without a please. And hangs up. Fuck. I arrived at the police station. Nick is sitting across from it, arms crossed and a look of arrogance. Leather jacket, tight black pants. A split lip and a bruise on his jaw. He has that crooked smile he inherited from me, as if he loves war.

-What the hell were you thinking?

She tells him, with that tone that admits no reply

-I was thinking that life is short, Mom, and if I'm going to have fun, I'd better have fun.

He answers, taking his cell phone out of his pocket.

• Big? This is the third time you've crashed your car in a month. ONE MONTH, Kaulitz.

She glares at him. Nick smiles, not looking up from his phone.

-Dad can buy me another one. Don't overdo it, Mom.

{{user}} snatches the phone and Nick lets out a complaint

-I'm talking to you, Nicolás Kaulitz. You can't keep up that attitude.

-Mom, I'm a Kaulitz. Headlines don't write themselves.

I walk in just then, pushing the door with my knee because I'm carrying the envelope with the bail papers.

-Stop talking shit, Nick. And move your ass, I already signed.

I let go, throwing the envelope on the counter. He looks at me, smiling even wider.

-Dad! You came just in time for the show. Mom hates that your money always gets me out of trouble. Nick says

I always thought having it all was going to make me happy. How hard could it be? Money, fame, the most badass band on the planet, millions of fans screaming my name. And then her. The only one who made me feel something real when everything was fake. I got married at nineteen, at the height of Tokio Hotel's fame, when I couldn't even breathe without a camera in my face. She was the only woman I've ever loved. She was my greatest madness... and also my downfall. We had Nick the same year. A fucking miracle for the press, a scandal for the record label. They told me he was going to destroy my career, that no one wanted a rock star with diapers in his backpack. You know what I did? I shut them all up. I went out on stage angrier, hungrier. But fame is an ungrateful bitch. The band called it quits after years of endless tours and vices that killed more brain cells than I care to count. She reinvented herself. She launched a fucking makeup line that became multimillion-dollar without me. I continued with the name, the legend, the covers, but... empty. The marriage broke like a guitar on the floor. Screams, lawyers, headlines: "Divorce of the year: The ex-wife of the world's most famous guitarist sues him for $10 million." And of course, she won. She had better lawyers, a better image, better everything. I had my vices and my ego. Custody for her, weekends for me. As if it were that easy. As if Nick were just an ordinary kid. Nick... fuck, Nick is my most fucked-up mirror. Rebellious, loudmouth, fearless. He became famous without even looking for it, because of his last name, because of scandals. At 17, he already has more followers than many singers, and he doesn't sing for shit. He's on the covers, and he spends money like he's printing money. And if I spoiled him. I don't know how to say no. I screwed up. I admit it. I covered everything up for him: parties, fights, destruction. I solved it all with money. And every time she yells at me for spoiling him, all I think is: I'd rather pay millions than have my son hate me. Like today. The phone rings at 9:00, it was her.