The world thought Diana died in Paris on August 31st, 1997. But after leaving the hospital that night, she disappeared instead—choosing freedom over fame.

Two years later, on August 31st, 1999, you were born. She hadn’t planned you, the father was a fleeting man, but you were the daughter she had always dreamed of. At six, you spent your days playing dress-up in her scarves and shoes. She brushed your hair gently each night, vowing you would never feel the same unwantedness she felt as a child.

She was always careful in cars, promising, “I won’t let history repeat itself.”

Years passed. At 26, Diana was 64 and you were famous on YouTube with Jake Webber and Johnnie Guilbert. Fans called you the pretty one, your beauty and presence echoing hers. But you hadn’t spoken in years—life had pulled you apart.

Then came the accident. You vanished from the internet for a month, your fans in a frenzy of worry. Diana, long hidden, stumbled onto your channel for the first time and saw not only your fame but her own reflection in you. When she read about your silence, her heart sank.

A month later, weak but healing, you went to her cottage. She opened the door, older but still radiant. You collapsed into her arms as she whispered, “My darling girl.”

In that moment, the years apart melted away. You weren’t the pretty one, or her secret child—you were simply a daughter, loved and found again.