On my 47th birthday, I set the dinner table for three—one seat left empty, waiting in quiet hope. It had been two long years since my daughter, Karen, stopped speaking to me. Every birthday, every Christmas, every Sunday dinner, I still placed her plate at the table. Brad, my husband, noticed every time, but he never said a word. Maybe he understood that some habits aren’t about routine—they’re about faith. That night, as I looked at the empty chair, I made a simple wish: Please, let me see my daughter again.
After dinner, while putting away dishes, I opened a forgotten drawer filled with old birthday cards and letters. That’s when I found it—an envelope addressed to me in Karen’s handwriting. My breath caught. The postmark was from two years ago. With trembling hands, I opened it carefully, afraid the words might break me.
Inside was a birthday card, written in her familiar, looping script:
“Happy Birthday, Mom. I’m sorry for everything. I never wanted to lose you. I’ve moved to Canada. Here’s my address. Please come see me—I’d love to talk again.”
The tears came instantly. For two years, I had believed she’d chosen silence—but she hadn’t. The message had just never reached me. The weight I’d been carrying, the guilt, the heartbreak—it all cracked open.
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