It is early Sunday morning, August 31, 1997. My young daughter's voice jars me from peaceful sleep. For a split second, I am certain I heard wrong. After all, Princess Diana is too pretty, too rich and far too young to die.
"Mother!" my daughter says again, frantically waving the newspaper. “Princess Diana was—"
Before she finishes the sentence, I jump out of bed and stare at her solemn face. "Princess Diana? Killed?" I say, on the verge of hysteria. "Surely not. Where? When? How?"
Taking the newspaper from my daughter, I stare in disbelief at the horrifying headlines: "Princess Diana killed in car crash."
I read them again—aloud.
My throat tightens, my heart pounds and an inexplicable feeling of anguish settles over me as I read the tragic account of a beautiful princess dying way too soon.
For days, I am consumed with grief. My heart hurts, literally. I am angry. I feel miserable. I have difficulty getting on with life. I think of Diana's two sons, motherless now. I imagine her dreams for the future. Her aspirations for another chance at love, perhaps. All dashed, in an instant.
It is as if I knew her, the lovely princess with sad blue eyes. It is as if I know her children, feeling their loss, their pain, wishing I could do something to help.
The funeral finds me buried in tissue, sobbing like a child. I call my sister and we talk of life and its uncertainty. We talk about family and friends and how important every moment is. And strangely, we talk about seatbelts.
Experts surmise that, had Diana worn a seatbelt that momentous night, she most probably would have survived the accident. The argument is compelling. So compelling, in fact, that, although I have never worn a seatbelt before, I vow to begin.
Before saying good-bye, my sister and I talk about love, and how all the money in the world can't buy it.
According to those who knew Diana best, she longed for love. Forget the palace, the jewels, the clothes, the hats and even the royal title; Princess Diana wanted love—the kind that lasts a lifetime. I am sad she never found it.
Promising to call again tomorrow, I hang up the phone and blow my nose. Without warning, the strangest thing happens: I feel rich. Very rich.
Not because I live in a palace—I don’t. Not because I've spent time aboard a yacht with the son of a billionaire—I haven’t. And not because I am the mother of any future king—I am not.
I feel rich for one simple reason: I am loved.
Suddenly, my unpretentious home takes on a palatial appeal. The squeaky door no longer bothers me. The tiny utility room appears massive from where I stand. Clothes which were ordinary just yesterday, look like something a beautiful princess would wear. Even my offspring takes on a royal hue.
Diana's untimely death, and the stories of her unfulfilled existence, reiterate what I have known all along: Riches have nothing to do with money. True riches are found within, where no one sees.
How uncanny, I muse, that while I sometimes longed to be like Diana—gorgeous, celebrated, with closets full of splendid clothes—Diana longed to be like me: loved. For the first time in many days, I smile.
And, true to my word, that tragic morning in August marked the beginning of me buckling up every time I get in a vehicle. Not just for myself, understand, but for the people I love and for those who love me.
This originally appeared in The Dallas Morning News in 1997.
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