On my 47th birthday, I set the table for three—just like I had for the past two years. One seat always stayed empty. It belonged to my daughter, Karen, who hadn’t spoken to me since I left her father. Every year, I hoped she’d walk through the door again.

Brad noticed the third plate and said quietly, “This one’s for Karen?” I nodded, unable to speak. We lit the candles on my birthday cake, but all I could do was stare at the empty chair. I called her again. No answer. Just silence. That night, I pulled out an old photo album and cried over her baby pictures, the ones where she clung to my hand like I was her world.

The next morning, I told Brad, “I need to face Nigel.” Karen’s silence had gone on too long. Brad came with me. When Nigel opened the door, he looked surprised—and tired. We sat down, and I asked, “Do you know where Karen is?” He finally said, “She moved to Canada… last year.” My heart dropped. He’d known—and never told me.

Then he remembered something. He pulled out a birthday card Karen had left for me the year before. I opened it with shaking hands. “Mom, I’m sorry. I miss you. I love you. Here’s my address. I hope you visit.”

I flew to Ontario the next day, holding that card to my chest. When Karen opened the door, we didn’t speak—we just hugged. The kind of hug that heals.

After two years of silence, love found its way home.