Behind the grandeur of crowns and carriages, Queen Elizabeth II lived a life filled with quiet routines, simple joys — and one extraordinary secret.
For more than seventy years, through wars, weddings, jubilees, and generations of history, the Queen kept a friendship hidden from the public eye. Her confidante was not a noble, a head of state, or a royal aide — but an
They were born on the very same day — April 21, 1926 — and though they never met face-to-face, their bond endured across oceans and decades, sealed in ink and compassion.
It began in 1952, the year Elizabeth ascended the throne. Across the Atlantic, in the small town of Ripon, Illinois, a young woman named
“I thought it was funny — me and the Queen, same day, same year!” she once recalled to a local reporter, laughing softly. “So I decided, why not write to her?”
She found an address for Buckingham Palace, bought a crisp piece of stationery, and wrote a simple note: a birthday greeting to the new Queen from a stranger who happened to share her special day.
She never expected an answer.
But a few weeks later, a white envelope arrived in her mailbox, stamped with the royal seal. Inside was a message signed Elizabeth R. — warm, personal, and surprisingly down-to-earth.
It was the beginning of a correspondence that would span the rest of their lives.
Over the years, Adele and the Queen exchanged hundreds of letters and birthday cards. Each April 21st, a royal envelope would arrive at Adele’s modest Illinois home, carrying greetings from Buckingham Palace.
In return, Adele would send a card — often handmade, sometimes with pressed flowers or a note about her family.
Though their worlds could not have been more different, the tone of their letters was the same: gentle, genuine, and unpretentious.
“The Queen always sounded like a friend,” Adele once said. “She never wrote like a monarch. She wrote like a lady who loved her dogs, her garden, and a good cup of tea.”
Elizabeth shared little details about her corgis, her favorite teas, and sometimes even her recipes — including a lemon shortbread that Adele tried more than once, claiming it was “fit for a queen.”
Their letters never spoke of politics or power — only life. The changing seasons, the passing of time, their shared birthday joy.
As the decades rolled on, the world transformed. Presidents came and went. Empires shifted. But every year, two women — one in a palace, one in a small American town — remembered each other.
In the 1970s, when air travel and television made the Queen’s life more visible, Adele would still smile quietly on her birthday. “She’s probably having tea with the Prime Minister,” she’d say, “and I’m here baking a pie — but we’re still celebrating together.”
By the 1980s, the correspondence had become a cherished ritual. When Elizabeth celebrated her Silver Jubilee, Adele sent her a handmade quilt embroidered with the dates of the Queen’s reign. When Adele turned 60, Elizabeth sent a special card embossed with gold foil and the royal crest.
“They were like sisters who never met,” said Adele’s niece, Nancy Richards. “Aunt Adele always said the Queen understood her, even though they were from two different worlds.”
When Queen Elizabeth II passed away on September 8, 2022, the news rippled across the globe — and reached a small house in Illinois where an elderly woman sat quietly at her kitchen table.
Adele Hanky was 96. She had just begun writing her next birthday card for the Queen.
When she heard the news, she wept softly. “It’s like I lost my oldest friend,” she told her niece. “Every year, we wished each other another one — and now, there won’t be another.”
For three weeks, Adele kept the Queen’s final letter on her bedside table. She reread it often, smiling at the neat handwriting and the warmth that had never faded, even in old age.
Then, peacefully, she too passed away — just three weeks after the Queen.
Born the same day, April 21, 1926, the two women shared not only birthdays, but a lifetime — and, in death, a reunion beyond all distance.
News of their unusual bond surfaced only after both had gone. Adele’s family shared her box of royal correspondence with local journalists — dozens of birthday cards, photos, and envelopes stamped with Buckingham Palace insignia.
Each one told the story of a friendship that defied class, geography, and time.
There was no publicity, no exchange of favors — only a thread of kindness that spanned seventy years.
In an age when the Queen’s life was ruled by duty, these letters were something private and purely human — a glimpse into her heart, unfiltered by ceremony.
For the Queen, Adele represented the everyday people she served. For Adele, the Queen was proof that even the mightiest hearts could be kind.
When asked once if she wished to meet the Queen in person, Adele smiled. “Oh no,” she said. “That would spoil the magic. I like us just as we are — two friends, far apart, who always remember each other.”
Perhaps that is why their story feels so timeless — a reminder that friendship can cross borders, titles, and lifetimes.
Now, as admirers leave flowers by statues of the Queen, one can almost imagine another bouquet, unseen, resting beside Adele’s headstone in Illinois — a quiet tribute from across the sea.
Two women, born the same day in 1926.
One crowned in gold, the other crowned by kindness.
They wrote to each other for seventy years — and now, in eternity,
Jewelry can be dazzling, but true nobility is not found in gemstones. It is found in character, restraint, and the ability to command respect without demanding attention. That contrast has never been clearer than when Queen Camilla and Princess Anne step into public view.
For decades, Princess Anne has been the quiet anchor of the monarchy, a woman who wears her duty as effortlessly as she wears her coats and scarves. Camilla, in contrast, has often relied on jewelry, gowns, and outward displays to project a sense of royal authority. And yet, no matter how many pearls she layers around her neck, the gulf between presence and performance remains unmistakable.
At the 2023 State Dinner in France, all eyes were on Queen Camilla as she arrived adorned in an elaborate four-layer pearl necklace. The intention was obvious: to signal regality, heritage, and gravitas. But what should have been an elegant symbol quickly became a moment of awkwardness.
As the toasts began, Camilla raised her glass conspicuously higher than France’s First Lady, Brigitte Macron. A gesture intended to convey stature instead left the French President visibly uncomfortable. For many observers, it was not just a breach of etiquette—it was a revealing glimpse into the insecurity that hides beneath the pearls.
The necklace may have shone under the chandeliers, but it could not disguise what was missing: the natural ease of someone truly at home in their role.
In striking contrast, Princess Anne has long embodied the opposite approach. At the Cheltenham Jockey Club Final this March, she appeared in a simple red coat, a soft pink scarf, modest earrings, and a brooch pinned with quiet confidence. Nothing about her attire screamed for attention, and yet she commanded it all the same.
Her presence struck the perfect balance—neither overshadowing those around her nor fading into the background. Anne’s elegance lies not in jewels but in her unshakable sense of self. She understands what so many in the public instinctively know: that authenticity is more powerful than adornment.
Time and again, she has shown that true royal poise is not about being noticed—it is about being remembered.
The contrast between Camilla and Anne is not simply about fashion. It reflects two very different approaches to royalty itself.
Camilla, once a mistress and now Queen, still seems to rely on visible markers of status—necklaces, gowns, even the crown itself—to assert her position. Every jewel she wears seems to whisper an unspoken plea: see me as noble, see me as regal.
Anne, by comparison, does not need to ask. She has earned her reputation through decades of unwavering service, often away from the limelight. Her lack of pretension is precisely what makes her so deeply respected, both at home and abroad.
It is no wonder that, when the British public is asked which royal they trust most, Anne consistently ranks near the top.
Camilla’s pearls carry a weight beyond their carats. For many, they remain a reminder of her complicated past—years as the other woman, years in which her presence caused pain for Diana, the late Princess of Wales. No necklace, no matter how ornate, can erase that memory in the hearts of those who watched Diana suffer.
And perhaps this is why Camilla’s attempts at nobility so often fall flat. Nobility cannot be borrowed, and it cannot be bought. It must be lived.
Princess Anne, in her unassuming scarves and simple brooches, embodies this truth. She does not seek to dazzle. She simply serves—and in doing so, she shines.
When Camilla and Anne stand side by side, the contrast could not be sharper. Camilla, adorned in pearls, strives to project what she wishes to be. Anne, draped in simplicity, quietly lives what she already is.
To borrow a timeless metaphor: a pheasant, no matter how finely dressed, can never truly blend in with swans. And in the eyes of the British public, it is Anne—steady, graceful, and unpretentious—who soars with the dignity of true royalty.