I Was Only 12 When I Lost Her: The Goodbye I Never Got to Say to My Mother, Diana

I was only 12 years old when my world shattered.

They told me my mother was gone. They told me she had been in a terrible accident. And then, just like that, I was expected to say goodbye.

But there was no real goodbye.

Her coffin was sealed when it was brought to the church. They said it was to protect her privacy and dignity. Maybe that made sense to them. But to me, it didn’t. She wasn’t just a princess to the world. She was my mother. And I never got to see her one last time.

William and I wrote just one word on the wreath: “Mummy.” It was the only farewell we could give. There were three simple bouquets of white roses on top — from us and my uncle. It felt so small, so painfully inadequate, for a woman who gave us everything.

Inside that coffin, they placed a rosary given to her by Mother Teresa. And they placed a photograph — a photo of William and me. She carried that picture everywhere. Even in death, she held us close.

She left so suddenly that she didn’t even have time to write a will. It was her housekeeper who made that choice, slipping her favorite photo into the coffin. That picture became her last possession, her last connection to us.

For years, I waited for that moment — that final chance to say goodbye. But it never came. The pain hasn’t faded. It lingers, as sharp and unrelenting as the day I first heard the news.

To the world, she was the People’s Princess. To me, she was Mummy. And if she could see us now, I hope she knows — we still ache to hug her one more time.

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