She’s so pretty, I thought. She’s so lucky. To my eyes, it looked like the happiest of happy endings; a fairy tale come true.
When Princess Diana died, I was a reporter at The Philadelphia Inquirer. I mostly wrote features, but that night, I was covering a shift in the newsroom.
It was a holiday weekend—a traditionally slow news time— and my best friend had promised to prank me by calling in breathless reports of plane crashes and other natural disasters.
When the city desk phone rang and I heard my friend saying, her voice low and tense, “Turn on the TV,” I said, “Ha ha ha.”“No,” she said. “I’m not kidding.
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