On my 47th birthday, I set the table for three—one seat left quietly waiting. Two years had passed since my daughter, Karen, stopped speaking to me. Every year, I still placed her plate at the table, holding on to a little hope. My husband, Brad, noticed but didn’t say much. That night, I wished for one thing—to see my daughter again.
After dinner, I found an old card tucked inside a drawer. It was a birthday card from Karen that I had never received. My hands trembled as I read her words—apologies, love, and an address in Canada. She hadn’t abandoned me; the card had simply never reached me. For the first time in years, I felt a spark of hope.
