My 47th birthday passed quietly — three plates on the table, one empty, a silent reminder of my daughter I hadn’t spoken to in two years. Each year, I still set that place for her, hoping somehow she might return.
That evening, after washing dishes, I found a birthday card tucked in an old drawer — from Karen. Apologies, love, and an address in Canada. My hands trembled. She hadn’t cut me out; the card had simply never reached me.
The next day, with my husband’s support, I confronted my ex, who admitted he’d misplaced it. I packed my suitcase that evening, determined not to lose her again.
When I reached her door, she opened it before I could knock. Arms wrapped around each other, the years apart melted away. That day, I found my daughter — and a piece of my heart I’d been missing.
