On my 47th birthday, I set the table for three. One seat remained empty, as it had for the past two years—quietly waiting. My daughter, Karen, hadn’t spoken to me in all that time.
Still, every year, I laid out her plate, a small act of hope I couldn’t let go of. Brad, my husband, noticed but said nothing. That night, as candles flickered and dinner cooled, I made a silent wish: to see my daughter again.
Later, while tidying up, I opened a drawer and found something I hadn’t seen before—a birthday card, addressed to me in Karen’s handwriting. My hands shook as I unfolded it. Inside were words I’d longed to hear: apologies, love, and an address in Canada. She hadn’t turned away from me after all. The card had simply never arrived. For the first time in years, something stirred in me—hope.
