On my 47th birthday, I set the table for three—one seat left heartbreakingly empty. For two years, my daughter Karen had refused to speak to me, the silence between us forming a wall I couldn’t climb. Yet, every birthday, I placed that extra plate in the fragile hope she might come home. That night, as the scent of meatloaf filled the air, the flicker of candles barely lit the sadness inside me. My husband, Brad, gently asked if the seat was for her; I could only nod, fighting back tears.
The next morning, driven by a need for closure, I went to find my ex-husband, Nigel. When he opened the door, looking older and worn, he delivered a crushing blow: Karen had moved to Canada over a year ago, and he had “forgotten” to tell me. Then, he handed me a birthday card she had given him to send—but that he had kept hidden.
My hands trembled as I opened it. In her familiar handwriting, Karen poured out her anger and confusion. She explained how she had blamed me for leaving and felt torn by Nigel’s pressure to remain silent. But at the end, she wrote the words I’d prayed for: she missed me, she loved me, and she included her new address.
Tears of hope streamed down my face. The next day, I flew to Canada, clutching that card like a lifeline. Standing before her door, my heart pounded as I reached out to knock—only for the door to swing open first. There she was. For a long moment, we just looked at each other, and then she stepped forward and hugged me tightly. In that embrace, the years of silence and pain finally melted away. We were together again.
