Michael Jackson passed away in June 2009 due to cardiac arrest caused by an accidental drug overdose, leaving behind three children: Paris, Blanket (also known as “Bigi”), and Prince Jackson. On August 29, 2023, which would have been their late father’s 65th birthday,
Blanket and Prince were seen in Las Vegas after attending the “Michael Jackson ONE” show by Cirque du Soleil at Mandalay Bay Resort and Casino. Paris, the third sibling, was on tour with the rock band Incubus.
Prince, in blue jeans and a gray T-shirt, engaged with fans, receiving a drawing of Michael and returning the gesture with a hug. Blanket, rarely seen in public, wore black attire, and fans noted his resemblance to Michael.
During a TV interview in 2021, Blanket, also known as Prince Michael Jackson II, expressed his passion for environmentalism and urged people to address climate change.
Born on February 21, 2002, via surrogate, Blanket is the only biological child of Michael Jackson. Reports suggest that a Mexican nurse named Helena served as the surrogate, chosen by Michael, with a separate egg donor. At Prince’s Thriller Night Halloween Party in 2021,
Blanket highlighted the historical significance of their home and studio, reflecting his father’s essence. He emphasized the family’s desire to create things for people’s enjoyment and benefit.
Having no plans to pursue a musical career like his father, Blanket maintains a low profile and resides in Calabasas, California, in a house purchased in March 2020.
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I Allowed a Homeless Woman to Stay in My Garage—One Day I Walked in Unannounced and Was Shocked by What I Saw
I tapped the steering wheel, trying to shake the weight on my chest, when I spotted a disheveled woman digging through a trash can. I slowed down, drawn in by her grim determination.
She looked fragile yet fierce, fighting for survival. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked, “Do you need help?”
Her response was sharp but tired: “You offering?”
“I just saw you there,” I admitted, stepping out. “It didn’t seem right.”
“What’s not right is life,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who knows much about that.”
“Maybe not,” I replied, then asked if she had a place to stay.
“No,” she said, and I felt compelled to offer my garage as a temporary home. To my surprise, she accepted, albeit reluctantly.
Over the next few days, we shared meals and conversations. Lexi’s sharp wit broke through my loneliness, but I could sense her hidden pain.
One afternoon, I barged into the garage and froze. There, sprawled across the floor, were grotesque paintings of me—chains, blood, a casket. Nausea hit me.
That night, I confronted her. “What are those paintings?”
Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see them. I was just… angry.”
“So you painted me as a monster?” I demanded.
She nodded, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I struggled to forgive her. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, giving her some money. Weeks passed, and I felt the loss of our connection.
Then, a package arrived—another painting. This one was serene, capturing a peace I hadn’t known. Inside was a note with Lexi’s name and number.
My heart raced as I called her. “I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know if you’d like it,” she replied.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” I said, reflecting on my own unfairness.
“I’m sorry for what I painted,” she admitted. “You were just… there.”
“I forgave you the moment I saw that painting. Maybe we could start over.”
“I’d like that,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.
We made plans to meet again, and I felt a flicker of hope for what could be.
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