On my 47th birthday, I set the table for three—just as I had for the past two years.

One seat always stayed heartbreakingly empty.

This year was no different. I placed Karen’s plate gently in front of her usual spot, just like I always did. It was a quiet ritual now. Pointless, maybe. But I couldn’t stop. It made me feel like I hadn’t given up.

Karen hadn’t spoken to me since I divorced her father. She didn’t just pull away—she disappeared. No calls, no letters. No birthday messages, not even for her younger brother. It was like she had torn herself out of our lives completely.

That first year, I left voicemails every week. The second year, just once a month. This year, I didn’t even bother. Grief had hardened around my heart like stone. Still, every birthday, I hoped.

After dinner, I started cleaning up. My son, Mark, had gone back to his dorm, leaving just me and the quiet. I opened the hutch to grab the old birthday candles we never used, and that’s when I noticed it.

A small white envelope, tucked between some linens.

It had my name on it. My full name—in Karen’s handwriting.

My hands started to shake. I opened it like it might dissolve in my fingers.

“Mom,”
If you’re reading this, it means you’ve found the card I left before I left.
I couldn’t say these things out loud. Maybe I was a coward. But I felt betrayed—not just by the divorce, but by everything you didn’t tell me.
Dad said you walked out on us. That you’d been planning it behind our backs for months. I hated you for leaving.
But I heard something the night I left for college. Dad was on the phone. I only caught a piece of it. He said, “She begged me to tell them. But why should I look like the bad guy?”
That stuck with me.
And then I found the papers—his emails, the court letters, the counseling records. You didn’t walk out, Mom. You were pushed. Silently. To keep the peace.
You didn’t want to hurt us. You carried the blame so we wouldn’t have to choose sides.
I see that now. And I’m sorry I didn’t ask questions sooner.
I’m trying to find the courage to come back. If I don’t make it this birthday, maybe the next. Please don’t stop setting that place at the table.
Love,
Karen

I dropped the letter and sank into the chair—the empty one. My shoulders shook, not just from sadness but from the tidal wave of relief.

She hadn’t stopped loving me.

I had wondered for years: Where’s Karen? Is she okay?
Now I had my answer.

And maybe—just maybe—I’d see her again.

The next morning, I lit a candle beside her plate and placed the card gently in the center.

Then, just as I sat down with my coffee, the doorbell rang.

Through the frosted glass, I saw a shape I hadn’t seen in years.

She stood there, her hair longer, her eyes wet with nerves.

“I didn’t know if you’d still be here,” Karen whispered.

I didn’t say a word. I just pulled her into my arms, holding her like I’d never let go again.

The table for three was finally full.

And this time, the chair wasn’t empty.