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The way words sometimes emerge when someone has spent years avoiding them.
His father had spent a lifetime inside an institution where emotion was controlled, appearances protected, and private difficulties handled behind doors the public was never supposed to see.
William had learned the same discipline almost from childhood.
He was only fifteen when his mother was killed in Paris in August 1997.
Harry was twelve.
Flowers stretching outside palace gates.
A coffin draped in the Royal Standard.
Millions watched them.
Few could know what it felt like to be them.
There was an expectation surrounding the boys that went beyond ordinary mourning.
They weren’t simply Diana’s sons.
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