On my 47th birthday, I set the table for three — knowing full well only two of us would be sitting down. My daughter Karen hadn’t spoken to me in two years. The silence between us was deep and painful, built on misunderstandings I never found the courage to clarify. Still, every year, I left that empty seat for her. Just in case. Just in hope.

The smell of meatloaf filled the kitchen, a familiar comfort on an unfamiliar day. Brad, my husband, lit the birthday candles and quietly asked if I’d set that third place for Karen. I nodded, unable to speak. I had tried to call her again that afternoon, but the call dropped before she picked up — or maybe she declined it. I didn’t know which was worse. After dinner, I sat alone with an old photo album, flipping through memories of the bright, joyful little girl who used to call me her hero. All I ever wanted was to protect her — especially from the pain of knowing the real reason I left her father.

The next morning, I told Brad I needed to do something I should have done years ago. I needed to confront Nigel — not to reopen old wounds, but to stop pretending the past could stay buried. We drove to his worn-down house together. He looked surprised to see me, maybe even nervous. I told him I needed him to tell Karen the truth — about his drinking, the nights he didn’t come home, the way I had silently endured it all until I couldn’t anymore. He resisted at first, but when I told him I wasn’t asking for forgiveness, just a chance for my daughter to understand, he finally agreed.

Two days later, I received a card in the mail. No return address. Just my name in Karen’s handwriting. Inside was a birthday card with a simple message: “I understand now. Can we talk?” My hands shook as I held it. For the first time in two years, I cried tears of hope. That empty seat might not stay empty for long.