On my 47th birthday, I set the table for three—one seat left heartbreakingly empty. It had been two years since I’d heard from my daughter, Karen, and every silent day had carved a little deeper into my heart. But even in that absence, I couldn’t bring myself to stop setting her place each year, as if doing so might summon her back. Brad noticed, as always, the extra plate and asked gently, “This one’s for Karen?” I nodded, the smell of meatloaf and melting butter on mashed potatoes filling the air, but not the ache.
When the candles were lit on my birthday cake, shaped like a “4” and a “7,” I didn’t wish for anything extravagant—just to hold my daughter again. I tried calling her, but the ringing went nowhere. I blew out the candles, and something in me flickered with them. That night, I found myself sitting quietly with an old photo album, remembering the applesauce on her cheeks, her tiny hand wrapped around my thumb. But what I didn’t expect… was what Nigel had kept hidden from me all along.