Every year on my birthday, I set the table for three. One seat always stays empty. This year was no different. I turned 47 and still found myself waiting, hoping my daughter would walk through the door.
But Karen never did.
She hadn’t spoken to me since I divorced her father. In her eyes, I was the villain. She didn’t just pull away—she disappeared. I could barely remember the sound of her voice, or the way she laughed.
After this last birthday, something in me broke. I couldn’t wait any longer. I drove straight to Nigel’s place—my ex. I just needed answers.
He looked like he hadn’t slept in months. Still, he let me in. I didn’t waste time. “Where’s Karen? Is she okay?”
Nigel glanced down, his voice caught in his throat. Then he said, “Oh. Don’t you know?”
On my 47th birthday, I set the table for three—one seat left heartbreakingly empty. Two years of silence from my daughter, Karen, had hardened into grief. But that night, a forgotten card in an old drawer shattered everything I thought I knew.
