Later, sitting together in her kitchen, we talked for hours. She told me about her new job, her small apartment, her dreams, and the loneliness that had followed our falling out. I told her about the empty chair at the dinner table and how I’d set it for her every year.
We didn’t dwell on the argument that had pulled us apart—it no longer mattered. What mattered was that we were together again.
I took her hand. “I thought the same thing,” I said. “But I never stopped waiting.”
Sometimes, that’s all love is—waiting, even when it hurts.
What That Birthday Taught Me
Now, when I think back to that quiet birthday evening, I realize that the card wasn’t just a message from my daughter. It was a lesson in forgiveness and faith. Life has a way of hiding its miracles in the smallest places—in an old drawer, a forgotten envelope, a moment of courage to pick up and try again.
We can lose years to silence, but love has a way of surviving the distance.
This year, when my birthday came around again, there were four plates on the table. Karen sat beside me, helping me cut the cake, her laughter filling the kitchen. The chair that had once been empty was finally filled, and so was my heart.
In the end, it wasn’t the card itself that changed everything—it was the reminder that forgiveness can find its way through even the longest silence.
