My 47th birthday arrived quietly—just three plates on the table and one seat left deliberately untouched, a silent tribute to the daughter I hadn’t spoken to in two years. Yet, every year, I set that place for her anyway, clinging to the hope that one day, she might walk through the door and make it whole again.
That night, after whispering my birthday wish into the stillness of the kitchen, I had no idea that the answer I longed for was already in my home—hidden away in an old drawer.
As I was putting dishes away, I accidentally knocked over a stack of papers and uncovered a birthday card I had never seen before. It was from Karen—my daughter. In it, she had poured out her heart: apologizing, expressing her love, and even giving me her address in Canada. My hands shook as I read her words. She hadn’t shut me out after all. Her message had simply been lost. For the first time in years, I felt warmth bloom inside me again.
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The next morning, I shared what I’d found with my husband, Brad, and told him I had to go find her. Together, we visited my ex-husband, Nigel, who sheepishly admitted he had forgotten to give me the card. His carelessness hurt, but the letter’s promise of reconciliation outweighed the sting. Karen had wanted to reach out—and I wasn’t going to lose another second.
That very evening, I packed my bags and boarded a plane.
When I finally arrived at her door, I barely had a chance to knock before it opened. There she stood—older, more composed, but still wholly my Karen. Without a word, she rushed into my arms, and in that embrace, the missing years dissolved.
That day, I found more than just my daughter. I found forgiveness. I found love. And I found the part of my heart I’d been missing all along.
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