I didn't find out that I was filthy rich until I was fifteen years old.

See, I never knew my father, as he never knew me. My mother and him had an affair when she was quite young and studying abroad in Japan. He was older and already married with no children. When mother found out she was pregnant, she was back home in America and saw no need to bother him, as the workaholic wouldn't have been much of a father anyway. She knew nothing about him, and so as I grew older, I lived among thousands of questions that would go unanswered. Even if I had the courage to ask my mother who my father was, she couldn't have told me. She didn't even know his first name, as he'd gone by Ty. She knew that he'd moved to Japan right out of high school to start his own business. No address. No phone number. No name. My father was a mystery until my mother died.

Mother and I were a content family. We were born and raised New Yorkers, middle class, and had a healthy mother-daughter relationship. I went to a private school in Manhattan, maintained a B-plus average and steady group of friends, and was captain of the volleyball team as well as an avid violinist. She kept herself busy with her full-time job of being a yoga instructor a few blocks from our apartment. Mother always signed herself up for Taiwanese cooking classes and macrame sessions, anything to keep her busy. We seldom argued, because we were both notoriously shy and non-confrontational.

Well, one day after a Mandarin language course on 61st street the taxi driver taking her home hit another car, which hit another car, which hit into a streetlight. My mother was the only one killed. I didn't find out until that night when I'd come home from a volleyball game. The door was swung open and there was a squad of NYPD officers in my den. They gently gave me the news, asked me to pack a bag, and drove me to my uncle's house in Queens.

People always ask if I cried. Of course I did. She was my mother, I loved her to death. It didn't help how much I looked like her. Whenever I saw my reflection in the mirror it wasn't my long red curls I saw, or my deep brown eyes, or my pale complexion. It was all hers. I was staring at some kid that was just a replica of a beautiful woman taken from the world because of one hasty cab driver and a splash of bad luck. It hurt like no pain I'd ever felt in my life. When someone you love dies, it doesn't feel like you broke an arm or stubbed your toe. It doesn't feel like you've been punched in the throat or stabbed in the heart. Physically, you're fine. It's a pain deep inside you that throbs with every step, every breath you take. It's the worst kind of pain because the wounds can't be sewn with stitches and the pain can't be lessened with drugs, but regardless it still leaves a scar.

The arrangement with my uncle was quaint, he was a quiet man, an accountant with no wife or children. We got along well in the way where we didn't speak to each other and rarely crossed paths. I didn't go to school for the week I stayed with him, because that's what my government-appointed therapist insisted I do as a way of "self-healing". Obviously most therapists have never lost the only parental figure they had when they were high school sophomores. A vacation from school didn't bring my mother back to life, I'll tell you that much. If anything it gave me more time to think. And with thought comes regret. What could I have done to prevent her death? Was it my fault for not asking her to come to the volleyball game? Watching sports is never something she would've enjoyed, but could it have spared her life? I went crazy with different theories of how it'd been my fault. How I'd somehow been the reason she got into that particular taxi after Mandarin class.

But after that week of thinking I was called back to the police station. A stout police officer with an unfortunate mustache said the four words I'd never imagined being spoken to me. "We found your father." He took my silence for hesitance, but really I was in such shock I couldn't string words together in my head let alone out loud. "Unless your uncle is interested in adoption, or another family member of yours is set on being your guardian, we'll have to ship you out to Japan within the week. The government will pay of course, and your school marks will be transferred, as well as all of the credits from the courses you took. You'll live with him in Tokyo, go to school there, and reside there until you're eighteen. Then you can do as you please."

As the officer went on about legal forms and flight information and whether I wanted to see my therapist for a last minute session before I left, I managed to spit out the question I was most desperate for the answer to, "What's his name?"

The officers around the table in their office exchanged several looks resembling surprise, confusion, and pity. A younger one spoke up, "Tyler Fox." And I thought about it. All my life I'd gone by mother's last name, MacDonald. After all this time, all these years without knowing anything about the paternal aspect of my life, I wasn't even Marilyn MacDonald anymore. I was Marilyn Fox. A different person. No longer daughter Tessa MacDonald, or niece Oswald MacDonald. Just the daughter of Tyler Fox. Someone else entirely.

At that point I specified that I didn't have any more questions, and that night I packed my things, said goodbye to my uncle, thanked him, and gave him a number of letters to send to each of my friends from school. I couldn't even think about visiting them and explaining everything. They'd all find out anyway, and at least by the time they did I'd be far away in Tokyo. As I slept that night on the plane I tried to think positively. I'd never been to Japan before. It'd be an entirely new experience. I was basically fluent in the language as I'd taken Japanese language courses for years when mother went through her East Asia phase in which we ate only sushi and had dinner on the floor. I could write it relatively well, so school wouldn't be any more challenging. Apparently my father had signed me up for Japanese courses on the weekends, so I'd only improve with being able to communicate. I thought about how beautiful it was there, and how much technology and culture Tokyo harbors. I also thought about the last thing the police officers told me before I left.

"Marilyn, there's one last thing we think you should know. Your father... when he moved to Japan he started a business,"

"Yes, I know. Something with telemarketing." Mother had told me.

"Yes, a telemarketing business..which succeeds very well over in Tokyo. He's now the CEO of over fifty different corporations in his field. He owns a house there in which you'll reside with him and his wife, a beach house on the Japanese coast, and a townhouse in Belgium. You'll be inheriting the 100,000 dollars your mother left you transferred into yen, which will be in your bank account that he set up for you in Japan. But you'll also be getting the rights to 10% of his profits, which really adds up."

I paused. "So...he's loaded?"

The officers nodded at one another, "Completely."

As I rested in my first class cabin I pondered what it would be like to be wealthy, as I'd never experienced such a thing before. I drifted into sleep with dreams of fountains spewing gold and baths full of money, all of which seemed more intimidating than impressive.

When I stepped off the plane the next morning, I was told to look for a sign with my name on it. Sure enough, there was a tall middle-aged looking man holding a sign with "Marilyn Fox" on it. Way to help me acclimate to the new surname, "dad". He was wearing a crisp suit and dress shoes so shiny I could see my reflection. He had bags under his eyes and a few lines of aging on his face, but still looked enthusiastic and healthy. When we came face to face, we both seemed unsure of what to say. He had dark wavy hair that was slicked back, an Italian complexion, and green eyes. Despite our seemingly significant physical differences, you could certainly tell we were related. Something in the face or maybe something in the smile. Or lack thereof. I put out my hand, ready to initiate and set the relationship I was determined to have with this stranger, "Nice to meet you, Tyler." There was no way that I would accept the fact that he was my father just because of some shared DNA, my mother worked way harder than that to prove herself as a parent.

Tyler blushed but put his hand out as well, shaking mine firmly. "You too, kiddo." I raised an eyebrow at the nickname as our hands fell back to our sides. "Sorry. Look," he said, running a hand through his hair, "up until four days ago I had no idea I was even a parent. It's gonna take me a while before I'm father of the year." He turned and began to lead me towards the only Porsche in the parking lot. Of course.

"I'd expect nothing less." I said, walking a step ahead of him and smirking.

The car ride was just about as awkward as one would expect. Tyler informed me it'd take us about a half hour to get "home", so I took advantage of the forced time together and asked him a few questions. "So what's your wife's name?" I figured I'd start with that. What was she to me, anyway? A stepmother? A half-mother? A stranger staying in the same house as me? That's what Tyler seemed to be as well.

"Charice. You'll love her, and she's really excited to meet you. I know it'll take a while for you to warm up to her, but she's always wanted a daughter to spoil, so she'll make it very difficult not to like her." He smiled when he said her name. How could she be so excited when I'm just the result of her husband's infidelity? "In case you're wondering, I'd already told her about the affair all those years ago. So discovering that I had a daughter didn't make her angry so much as it made her shocked. And then a little sad." Perfect. The last thing I'd wanted was these people's pity. Tyler looked over at me for a second and then back to the road, "I don't know if you're anything like your mother, I didn't get to know her that well," he admitted, "but hell you sure look just like her."

I let the minutes go by before I asked, "Where will I be going to school?"

He lit up, "Oh it's this fantastic private school called Ouran Academy, in the heart of Tokyo. It has a fantastic studies program, I heard you play violin? Their music club is superb. And they also have a volleyball team." Done your research, eh Pop? "Students are organized by class. I know it sounds shallow, but it's a very prestigious school. There's all kinds of clubs and activities, you'll really get a feel for Japanese culture. The students there are from all over the world. You're in Class A as well, so you'll be on the top of the social ladder, I guess you could say."

"I don't really care about that kind of stuff." I lied. I was pretty popular back in New York, and I liked the idea of it being easy to make friends in a new country.

The house I'd be staying in was nothing short of a mansion. It had three floors, a gourmet kitchen, maids and servants and cooks and gardeners, and my bedroom was huge, painted light purple with a walk-in closet and its own bathroom. I'd wanted to put on a careless facade but I couldn't help but be star struck among the luxury. "Charice is away on business, she runs a culinary institute in Ichikawa. She'll be back tomorrow when you get home from school, I'll still be at work, so it's likely she's arranged some kind of activity for you both to spend some time together." He observed my less-then-delighted expression, "Just play nice, please. You're allowed to be mad at me, but Charice has good intentions."

He closed the door, leaving me in my solitude. By the time I'd finished unpacking and took a bubble bath in the gargantuan tub in my bathroom, it was late. I had to be up at seven so Tyler could drive me to Ouran Academy on his way to work. So I drifted off to sleep, glad there were no fountains outside, and that the tub had filled with water instead of gold.