On my 47th birthday, I set the table for three—one seat always left untouched. My daughter Karen hadn’t spoken to me in two years. No calls. No texts. Just silence. I kept reaching out, hoping, hurting. That night, after another unanswered call, I found myself digging through an old drawer—and there it was. A birthday card. Unsent. Addressed to me.
Inside, Karen had written words I never expected: apologies, love, and a quiet confession. She’d been angry when I left her father, Nigel. I never explained why. I thought I was protecting her. Instead, I became the villain in her eyes. Nigel, her hero, had quietly fed that narrative. And I let the silence grow.
The next morning, I told Brad—my partner—I needed to face Nigel. He came with me. At Nigel’s house, I learned Karen had moved to Canada. And then, he handed me the card. A year old. Forgotten in a drawer. Her words were raw: “I miss you. I love you. I’m sorry. Here’s my address.”
I was stunned. That card had sat there while I cried myself to sleep, believing she hated me. I left in tears, clutching the card like a lifeline. The next day, I boarded a flight to Ontario.
When I arrived at her door, I didn’t need to knock. She opened it. We stood there, silent. Then she stepped forward and hugged me. No explanations. No blame. Just love—finally returned.
