“Mom, are you serious? You’re sending me to London?” I screech. My mother rubs her temples and sighs.

“Rubi, I don’t want to send you there either, but your father wants me to.”

“Oh, really?” I scoff. “The father who hasn’t talked to me for 17 years? The father who’s given us nothing but a child support check every month? Why does he want to talk to me now?”

“Honey, he’s your father,” my mom replies. “He wants to see you.” I huff and storm away to my room. “What kind of a father is he?!” I yell.

3 weeks later, I find myself on an airplane to London. First class. Apparently my dad paid for the tickets. He’s wasting money on first class tickets. A coach seat would have been perfectly fine.

After 9 hours of reclining on the comfy first class seat, listening to my kpop on full volume (amazing!), watching 3 movies, and eating amazing food (hey, just because I think first class is a waste of money doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it), I arrive at Heathrow Airport. Even though I’m still indoors, it seems like the temperature’s dropped about 20 degrees compared to the weather in Texas. I dig around my carry-on bag for my sweater and quickly put it on, then head straight to Customs, where the attendant  hands me a map and some other papers.

 After an hour, I finally head to the carry-on section, looking for the sign that says Rubi or Roberts (my last name) or something like that. Finally, I spot a short, stout balding man who’s holding a large sign that reads “Rubi Roberts”. I drag my luggage over to him.

“Dad?” I say.

“Oh no,” the man replies in a British accent. “Your dad sent me to pick you up, darling. Let’s go.” He starts walking to the airport exit. Wow.  I’ve never met my dad. The least he could do is pick me up from the airport, or at least meet me. I scowl as I follow the short man. “I’m Dickson, your father’s butler.” he adds.

I stop in my tracks. “Butler?!” I shriek. “My dad has a butler?”

“Of course,” Dickson laughs. “How else would he manage his estate?”

“What estate?” I ask. Dickson stares at me strangely.

“Your father’s estate,” Dickson replies slowly. “Ah, we’re here.” He pulls out car keys from his pocket and unlocks a sleek Mercedes-Benz in the parking lot. My mouth drops open. “Hop in,” Dickson says.

Who is my father?