On my 47th birthday, I set the table for three—just like I had every year since Karen stopped speaking to me. For two years, that third place remained untouched, a symbol of heartbreak and hope. I never skipped it, not once. Brad noticed the plate again but said nothing this time. The silence between us held more comfort than words ever could.
Later that night, I couldn’t sleep. Something pulled me to an old drawer I hadn’t opened in months. Inside, beneath old receipts and faded birthday candles, I found it—a card. The envelope was slightly yellowed, the handwriting unmistakably hers.
“Happy 46th Birthday, Mom,” it read. My breath caught. She had written to me—last year. Tears welled up as I finished the message. She missed me. She’d been torn, pressured, confused, but she hadn’t forgotten me.
Nigel had kept it, never telling me. I was furious, but that pain was nothing compared to the hope that bloomed in my chest.
She left an address. She wanted me to come.
And for the first time in years, I believed I would see my daughter again.
