Nattapong was born into the kind of provincial wealth that commands absolute respect in Korat. His family owned sprawling acres of land, and his father ruthlessly managed a dozen local businesses, determined to mold his son into a corporate heir. But at sixteen, Nattapong had zero interest in business management. He was entirely consumed by Pupen, a razor-thin girl from a parallel class with sharp, striking features. With bottomless allowance money, he had the attention of any girl he wanted, but Pupen became a teenage obsession that went too far. When she got pregnant, the patriarch’s fury was cold and efficient. Nattapong was immediately exiled to a university in Bangkok, while his father drove to Pupen’s village to “solve the problem” with a checkbook and a threat.
At 6:30 AM, a Google Home speaker hums to life with artificial birdsong. Nattapong, now thirty-seven, wakes up in his sleek, two-story house on the outskirts of Suvarnabhumi Airport. His wife is already downstairs. The scent of fried eggs and sliced oranges drifts up the staircase. When he enters the kitchen, his wife—a tall, fair-skinned Thai woman who works as a senior translator for a multinational—is already buttoning her corporate blazer.
Suddenly, his phone screen lights up on the marble counter. It displays a photo of a heavily made-up woman in a vulgar, neon bikini, flanked by a fortress of tequila shots and the logo of a notorious go-go bar in a certain famous fishing village. The sender’s name: Pupen.
His wife glances at the screen and shakes her head. “Are they insane at your company? Calling you at seven in the morning?” Because Nattapong currently manages a major chain of Bangkok pubs, the chaos of nightlife is his perfect, unquestioned alibi. She grabs her designer handbag. “Don’t forget to take Fah to school. And please, don’t work so much today.”
Nattapong stares at the phone, wondering how a contact he blocked years ago managed to bypass the system. Before he can process it, footsteps echo in the hall. Fah, his fourteen-year-old daughter—tall, bright, and impeccably fair-skinned—throws her arms around his neck.
“Pho rak khun na,” she beams. He laughs, instantly recognizing the tactical affection. She wants a 10,000-baht VIP ticket for the upcoming Blackpink concert. Her mother already said it was too expensive and dangerous, but her friend already secured a spot. Nattapong sighs, smiling. “Fine. Just don’t tell Mom.”
Thirty minutes later, steering his BMW X3 through morning traffic after dropping Fah at her private school, he pulls into a Starbucks drive-thru. He opens LINE. The chat with Pupen shows 999+ unread messages. He scrolls through the toxic archive. Money, money… Are you going to be a responsible father? Your daughter needs money too. You do everything for your new wife and Fah, why not help May?
He stares at the screen, his jaw tight. The absolute hypocrisy is suffocating. Pupen doesn’t care about May. She acts like the grieving, concerned mother, pretending she has no idea where their daughter is or what she is doing to survive. He repeats the familiar ritual: mute notifications, block contact.
Nattapong walks into his corporate office, sets his Starbucks cup on the mahogany desk, and waits for his secretary to deliver the morning briefing. The second she closes the door behind her, he opens an incognito Chrome browser. He logs into a fake Facebook account under the name James Bond.
There is only one friend on the account. Only one chat thread.
He clicks it. His first daughter, May. Her profile picture shows her standing on the curb of Soi 6, wearing a uniform that barely qualifies as clothing. There is no conversation in the chat history—just a long, sterile column of bank transfer slips. He opens his banking app, types in her account number, and hits send. 20,000 Baht.
A minute later, a reply arrives. It is a copied-and-pasted message in broken English, clearly intended for a foreign customer: “Thank you darling, when you come Thailand visit me.. I love only you…” attached with a giant animated heart sticker. He stares at the screen for a long moment, then closes the incognito tab. Until next month.
Many of you reading this will claim this story is pure fiction. A dramatic, manufactured exaggeration. That is your right. But just yesterday, sitting with the protagonist of this exact story on Wongamat Beach, the polished corporate facade finally cracked. He suddenly burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably like a teenager with a shattered heart. I couldn’t offer any profound advice. I simply patted his shoulder, frantically grabbed my bottle of beer, and stared out at the pitch-black ocean, giving him the space to let it all out, listening to the heavy, broken sobs dissolving into the sound of the crashing waves.
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