I was born in 1976, the elder of two daughters from my father’s third marriage, to Veronica Porche. Like any family we had our ups and downs, happy and unpleasant memories. The difference is we had to share our dad with the world.
Dad never had children with his first wife, he had four children with his second wife and two other children with women he was never married to. Although our stories differ, we share the fact that throughout our lives our father showered us with unconditional love and affection.
I grew up in a fairy tale, living in a four-storey mansion in Fremont, California, complete with a trellis and floral vine balcony. My father was the most famous man in the world and my mother one of the most beautiful. Celebrities visited often – Michael Jackson, John Travolta, Sylvester Stallone, Clint Eastwood, Tom Jones, Cary Grant, Kris Kristofferson, Lionel Richie. There were pool parties and magic shows. Life was good and the feeling I remember most as a child was love.
Unlike most celebrities, who feel people are intruding on their lives, my father welcomed it. He regularly turned down security and interacted freely with the crowds. His love for people was extraordinary. I would get home from school to find homeless families sleeping in our guest room. He’d see them on the street, pile them into his Rolls-Royce and bring them home. He’d buy them clothes, take them to hotels and pay the bills for months in advance. He used to sit me on his lap, look into my eyes and say, ‘Hana, if you can stop one heart from breaking, you shall not live in vain.’