My mom and Queen Elizabeth

These two very important women share one thing: Their age of their death at 96. Both didn’t choose their preordained destiny. 

My mom was born in a poverty-stricken, remote alpine valley of France, with little hope of good things to happen, while Elizabeth got lucky and received a golden, royal spoon in her mouth from the get go. It wasn’t the fault of any of them, though, and those were the cards they were dealt. 

My mom worked physically very hard, had no break, got her body worn out by too much work and her mind flooded by too much worries. 

Her British counterpart was cocooned, fully taken care of and could pretend she was running an Empire for a while, but by no personal merit at all.

My mother loved her three kids while the Monarch could hardly touch them and impart her full feelings toward them. Charles had to wait till he became half-dead to step on the throne. That sucks!

My mom was anonymous while the Queen was famous, but at the end they both became perfectly equal, which speak volumes about the silly things human invent for hoisting some of their kind above everything when in fact we’re all equal.