She remembers a house where laughter could turn to screaming without warning, where a child learned to read the temperature of a room by the sound of a sigh. Her father, long before he was Michael Landon, was a frightened boy who slept lightly, waiting for the next crash, the next accusation, the next emotional storm he couldn’t control. Those scars, she says, never disappeared; they simply changed shape.

On set, he wrapped that old fear in warmth, humor, and fierce protectiveness. The tenderness he gave his TV families was the tenderness he’d once needed himself. He wrote stories about forgiveness because he was still learning how to forgive his own past. To her, he was flawed, sometimes distant, sometimes too driven. But he was also a man determined to alchemize his pain into comfort for strangers—proof that even a broken childhood can become a lantern for someone else’s dark.