My (late) Grandma used to gather her grandkids by her knee and tell a fascinating family story: Her grandmother — our great-great-grandmother — was a beautiful peasant girl in Eastern Europe. One day, a prince was traversing through the countryside, painting landscapes under the watchful eyes of his tutors, when he caught a glimpse of this beautiful peasant girl washing her clothes by the river. Advertisement It was love at first sight.
Alas, his parents forbade their relationship: She was just a commoner. So he forsook his birthright and married this peasant girl anyway, becoming a brilliant painter. According to Grandma, he painted the ceiling of one church in Europe in such a unique way that during the daytime, the lighting showed one image; then at nighttime, the shadows shifted and a second, hidden image emerged.
His rivals asked him how he did it, but he refused to reveal his technique. So instead, he was murdered. Poisoned.
Long story short: After his death, his estranged royal family offered to take in his children — but only on the condition that their mother terminated her parental rights and never saw them again. She refused, and her daughter — my great-grandmother — was the first one from that side of the family to emigrate to America. It's a very nice story.
Unfortunately, a few years ago, I took a 23andMe test...
and according to the genetic data, there seems to be (ahem) far fewer members of European royalty impregnating Granny. Her story is genetical.