“I remember there was a day in kindergarten when we were supposed to bring our dads to school. It was some type of performance or something. I’d never met my father. So I asked my mom if he could come, and she told me: ‘He’s too busy. He lives in Malaysia. And he’s a king.’ My father was a king? That meant I was a princess! It made me feel so proud. But as I got older, I came to realize it was an elaborate story my mom had invented to comfort me. She was a single mother. We’d immigrated from the Philippines when I was six, and we were living in a rented room. That’s not how a princess was supposed to live. But whenever I’d ask more about my father, my mother would become withdrawn. She’d offer few details. She told me that she’d been working as a nurse in Malaysia. And that she met the king at a party. But the rest of the story seemed to be painful, so I took it upon myself to never open that box. I stopped thinking about it. Then one night, when I was fourteen years old, the phone rang. There was a strange voice on the line. I’d never heard the accent before. It said: ‘I represent His Royal Highness, and we’ve received your letters.’ I quickly handed the phone to my mom and she spoke to the man for several minutes. When she finally hung up, she told me: ‘Your dad wants to meet you now.’ I took a week off school. We flew to London and stayed at the InterContinental hotel. We were greeted in the lobby by a lawyer, who gave us a wad of cash to go shopping, and told us that ‘His Royal Highness’ would be available for lunch the next day. We agreed to meet in the hotel restaurant. But it wasn’t just us. My father had an entourage with him. During our meal he was very polite. He told me I looked like my older sister. But my mother did the majority of the talking. She had demands. She wanted financial support, which was provided. But she also wanted paternity in writing, which was never agreed to. Our lunch lasted about an hour. Afterwards my father told me: ‘My people will call you.’ And we did meet twice again. Each time in London. Each time for an hour. But I was never brought into the family. I was never fully acknowledged. Thankfully, before we left that first lunch, my mother did make one last request. She insisted that I take a photo with my father.”
#quarantinestories
tangentwithtanner
andulkaphoto
