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Fifteen years ago, Princess Diana died in a car accident in Paris. Sadly, this is one of the first historic event I remember. I was born when the Berlin wall fell, or when Bill Clinton first became POTUS. But I was too young to remember. I clearly remember when my Grandpa came in the kitchen and grimly announced that Princess Diana had died. At first, I didn’t believe him. It was so unlikely. A princess couldn’t die. I was ten and I still believed in fairy-tales. It took me a while to recover from the royal’s passing. Not only because she was a princess; because she was one of the first person I looked up to, besides my parents and other relatives. She was the people’s princess and even as a non-Brit, I felt like she was my princess too. And Diana devoted her life and energy to those who suffered and to her children. What saddened me too, was that two boys were going to grow up without their mom -even if I couldn’t express it so neatly. A lot was written about her, by people with certainly more insight than me; but to me, she was a woman with an enormous heart and most of life, she loved -to the point of being heart-broken sometimes, but it never kept her from loving. Today, I miss her.

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