On the day of the rape, I didn't make any noise or fuss, I just packed my luggage silently.
My six-year-old daughter hugged my leg: "Daddy, where are we going?"
"Bangkok." I said, "Daddy will take you to set up a stall."
The ex-wife sneered: "What kind of fame can a fried noodle maker have?"
Three years later, a Michelin-starred chef knelt down in front of my stall and begged to be my apprentice.
The ex-wife chased her abroad, crying and begging to get back together.
My daughter held a spatula in front of me:
"My dad owns a global chain of restaurants, so he doesn't care about you!"
They don't know that I do have—
I just didn't tell my daughter that it was the tens of billions empire I created casually.
