My 47th birthday passed in near silence—three plates on the table, one chair left empty. For two years, my daughter and I hadn’t spoken. Still, every birthday, I set a place for her, clinging to the quiet hope that one day she might return. That evening, after the candles burned out and the kitchen grew still, I made a wish I’d been making for years—just to hear from her again.
I never imagined the answer was already waiting. While cleaning up, I opened an old drawer and found a birthday card I had never seen before. It was from my daughter, Karen. Inside were pages of apology, love, and an address in Canada.
