My 47th birthday came quietly—just three plates on the table, a small cake, and one empty chair. That chair had been empty for two years, ever since my daughter, Karen, and I stopped speaking. Still, every year I set her place, as if the simple ritual might somehow bridge the silence between us.
That night, after the candles were blown out and the house settled into stillness, I whispered a small wish—to hear her voice again. I didn’t know that the answer to that prayer was already waiting for me, tucked away in an old drawer.
A Forgotten Message
After clearing the table and washing the last dish, I wandered into the hallway, sorting through a stack of forgotten papers and birthday cards. That’s when I found it—an envelope I had never seen before. The handwriting stopped me in my tracks. It was Karen’s.
My heart began to race as I opened the card. Inside were words I had longed to hear: apologies, memories, love, and an address in Canada written carefully in blue ink.
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