On my 47th birthday, I set the table for three—one seat heartbreakingly empty. Two years had passed since my daughter, Karen, stopped speaking to me. Still, I kept her place ready every year, like hope sitting quietly at the table. My husband, Brad, noticed but didn’t say much. That night, I blew out my candles wishing for one thing—to see her again.

Later, while tidying up, I found an old photo album and a card tucked in a drawer. It was a birthday card from Karen, written the year before. My hands trembled as I read her words—she hadn’t meant to disappear. She’d moved away, and her father had forgotten to give me the card. The message inside changed everything.

Karen wrote that she’d been angry and confused when I left her father but had started to understand. She missed me, she said, and hoped I’d visit her in Canada. Tears filled my eyes as I realized she hadn’t abandoned me—she’d been waiting for me to find her. The next morning, I packed my suitcase with hope instead of fear.

When I finally knocked on her door, she opened it before I could speak. Her eyes met mine, and time seemed to stop. Then she stepped forward and hugged me—tight, real, and forgiving. I held her close, feeling years of distance fade away. That night, I didn’t just get my daughter back—I got my heart back too.