It's quite likely that somewhere in the U.S., a 39 year-old mother died this week.
Her body was ravaged by stress, and likely by drugs.
Her young son, who she loved, met his demise a few months ago, via some of the same factors.
Men had battled over her, and had loved her.
And one of those men recently fathered a baby by her.
And now, a life lost.
But at the place of her death, there were no cameras, no frantic tv talking heads trying to outrace each other to bring the story to the celebrity-obsessed millions.
No professional nor even amateur psychologist or celebrity-covering journalist will spend time psychoanalyzing who she was, what went so wrong with her that she wound up not continuing to live.
For this torturned 39-year-old soul did not die in her luxurious room, in a casino for celebrities.
No, this young mother died in the housing projects, or in Appalachia, or in some small town in middle America.
Her face won't be grinning or snickering back on Page 1 of her hometown newspaper tomorrow morning. In fact, her passing might rate a brief mention if at all.
For her name was not:
Anna Nicole Smith.