On my 47th birthday, I set the table for three—though I knew only two would be filled.
The third seat, opposite mine, sat hauntingly empty. Just like it had for the past two years.
But this year… something changed.
The house was quiet, save for the soft clatter of cutlery as I laid out the silverware. The air smelled of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, and candles flickered atop a small birthday cake—though I hadn’t tasted sweetness since Karen stopped calling.
Brad hovered near the sink, drying his hands with a ragged towel. His eyes fell on the extra plate.
“For Karen?” he asked, gently.
I gave a silent nod.
I never stopped setting her place. It was foolish, maybe. But grief often wears the mask of routine. And this ritual? It kept the door cracked open to hope.
We sat down. Brad lit the candles. I stared at the flames like they could summon her back from wherever she’d vanished to.
“Make a wish,” he said softly.
I did.
But when I blew out the candles, all that remained was silence. Again.
And that silence broke me.
I reached for my phone. Her contact still read “My Baby Girl.”
I hit call.
It rang… and rang…
Then silence.
Not even voicemail. Just the cold click of disconnection.
“She’s still not ready,” I whispered.
I felt Brad wrap his arms around me as I collapsed into him, sobbing. I was tired of being strong. Tired of pretending she hadn’t left a mother-sized hole in my heart.
That night, after Brad had fallen asleep, I went searching.
I didn’t know for what—just that something inside me needed air.
I opened the old dresser drawer and found it—an album from a different life.
I ran my fingers over the peeling sticker on the cover and flipped it open.
Page after page of Karen.
Baby photos. Her first day of school. Birthday parties. Apple juice mustaches. Her tiny hand wrapped around my finger like I was her whole world.
And then… tucked between two pages… something else.
A card.
The envelope was yellowed, forgotten.
I stared at the handwriting.
Karen.
My breath caught in my throat as I slid it open.
“Happy 46th Birthday, Mom…”
I froze. Forty-sixth?
This was last year.
Why was I just seeing this now?
The next morning, heart pounding, I turned to Brad.
“I need to see Nigel.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. “If there’s any chance of finding her… I have to face the past.”
Without hesitation, he grabbed his keys.
“I’m coming with you.”
The drive to Nigel’s house was silent. But my mind wasn’t.
It spun with questions. Memories. Fears. Had he hidden more? Was Karen okay? Did she hate me?
When we pulled into the cracked driveway, my hands were already shaking.
Nigel opened the door looking like a man time had forgotten. His beard unkempt, flannel wrinkled. His eyes—tired.
“Karen,” I said, my voice breaking. “Where is she?”
He hesitated.
“She moved to Canada. Over a year ago.”
What?
I felt the room spin.
“You didn’t tell me?”
“You never asked.”
“I called. I wrote letters. You knew that.”
“She changed numbers. She never got your messages.”
I clenched my fists. The pain turned into anger.
He opened a drawer and pulled something out. An envelope.
“She left this for you.”
It was the same card.
The one I’d found in the photo album.
I looked up at him, horrified. “You had this… all year?”
He said nothing.
“You let me believe she wanted nothing to do with me. While I cried myself to sleep every night.”
Brad stepped in, his hand on my back.
“Let’s go,” he said quietly.
I left the house clutching the card like it was a lifeline.
In the car, I finally opened it and read her words:
“Mom,
I was angry. I didn’t understand why you left. Dad made you sound heartless… but you kept reaching out. And that made me question everything.
So I ran.
I’m sorry. I love you.
Please come find me. Here’s my address.
Happy Birthday, Mom.”
My hands shook. My chest ached. But hope? Hope exploded like fireworks in my veins.
The next morning, suitcase packed, ticket in hand, I flew to Ontario.
Every cloud we passed through felt like a veil lifting.
When I reached her street, my legs almost gave out. I stood frozen in front of a small brick house.
I raised my fist to knock—
But the door opened first.
There she was.
Karen.
Older. Wiser. Beautiful.
Her eyes searched mine… then overflowed.
She stepped forward.
I didn’t even say her name. I just dropped my bag and fell into her arms.
Lavender and honey. That was the scent of her hair.
We held each other as the past melted away.
No blame.
No words.
Just healing.
Some holes don’t stay empty forever.
Sometimes, if you keep setting the table…
Love finds its way home.