Every birthday for two long years, she set the table for three—even though her daughter Karen never came. On her 47th birthday, she arranged her dinner plates, the third one across from her—a silent plea, an open heart in the face of absence.
That evening, every detail felt heavy with memory: steaming meatloaf, buttery mashed potatoes, and a small round cake with “47” candles flickering under a glassy glaze. The empty chair felt colder than ever.
Hope flickered again when she picked up her phone and called. But the line rang endlessly, then dropped into nothingness—like footsteps fading down an empty hallway. Her husband, Brad, held her in silence as tears blurred the candlelight.
Later, sifting through old things, she discovered a forgotten photo album—and, buried inside her ex-husband Nigel’s prized drawer, a birthday card Karen had written… and never sent. It read: “Happy 46th birthday, Mom… I’m sorry. I miss you. I love you…”.
Shock and grief collided when Nigel revealed that Karen had moved to Canada with her boyfriend—and had changed phone numbers. Her letters had gone nowhere.
Clutching that handwritten card, she booked the next flight and flew to Ontario. At the door of a small brick townhouse, she raised her hand to knock—but before she could, the door opened. Karen stood there, eyes wary but familiar. They didn’t say anything. Then—she stepped forward and held her.
No words—just love, reunion, and healing after too many years of silence.
