I Thought My Daughter Had Forgotten Me — Until I Found a Card That Changed Everything

My Daughter Wouldn’t Speak to Me for Years, Until I Found the Birthday Card She Never Sent — Story of the Day

I arranged the table for three on my 47th birthday, but one place was tragically empty. My daughter Karen had been silent for two years, and her silence had turned to anguish.

But all I believed to be true was destroyed that night by a forgotten card in an old drawer.

With my hands shaking slightly, I carefully set down the final plate. The table was arranged with three seats, one more than we need.

The silverware was tucked neatly next to the third dish, which was placed in front of the vacant chair.

The chair was the same one that had not been used for two years. I still put it out on each birthday, though. It had become a habit that I couldn’t break, much like hope.

Brad was standing by the sink, using a towel so old that it appeared to have withstood a hundred family dinners to dry his hands. He saw the extra plate.

With a whisper, he said, “This one’s for Karen?” He spoke softly, as if he didn’t want to shatter something delicate.

I didn’t respond. I simply nodded while keeping my gaze on the scene. The table appeared too ideal.

The smell was warm and familiar as the meatloaf sat steaming in the middle.

Little pats of butter melted in the center of the perfectly fluffed mashed potatoes, resembling yellow stars. And my birthday cake was there.

It is spherical and little, with two candles put in the middle that are shaped like a 4 and a 7. I no longer even enjoyed cake.

Brad went to light the candles. The tiny flames danced and flashed as if they were attempting to lift my spirits.

He gave me a little smile and said, “Go ahead.” However, I saw it in his eyes.

He was keeping a tight eye on me, looking for any flaws. I remained silent. I was unable to.

I glanced at the vacant chair across from me and shook my head. It returned the stare, silent and icy.

It had been two years since Karen had sat there. Silence for two long years. No phone calls. Don’t text. No birthday greetings.

Nothing. She seemed to have vanished, and I was not permitted to openly miss her.

I inhaled deeply, the kind of breath that begins in the stomach and hurts when it gets to the chest.

I then grabbed my phone. “My Baby Girl” was still displayed in her contact. I didn’t alter it.

I made a call.

The phone kept ringing. Like footsteps along an endless hallway, it reverberated in my ear. The call then ended.

I muttered, more to myself than to Brad, “She’s still not ready.”

He remained silent. He simply approached me and embraced me. I broke down.

As if they had been waiting all day, the hot, quick tears poured down my face. I made one wish with that gentle puff of air after blowing out the candles.

only to re-hold her. Only once.

The springs creaked beneath me as I sat on the edge of our mattress that night after Brad had gone to bed and the house was quiet.

A gentle glow was generated by the bedside lamp, which bent strangely on the walls due to its crooked shade. Memories appeared to be dancing in the corners.

I took out the old photo album—the one with the torn edges and the small flower sticker remaining on the front—by reaching beneath the bed.

I slid the drawer close, and it moaned. When I opened the album, I was struck by the dusty, somewhat depressing fragrance of old paper and time.

On the first picture, my fingers hesitated. Karen.

Sitting in her high chair with applesauce all over her forehead and cheeks, she must have been nine months old.

As if I were the only object in the world she trusted, her hand was encircling my thumb.

I said to the silent room, “She was mine.” “It is still.”

But for the last two years, I felt as though I had vanished from her life. I had tried voicemails, emails, and letters. Nothing was found. Not even a line.

Perhaps I was deserving of that.

What type of mother betrays her daughter’s confidence, you ask? The fact is, I never explained to Karen why I had left Nigel, her father.

Long before I left that room, he and I had been drifting apart.

However, I remained silent when the break finally arrived. I believed I was shielding her from the unpleasant aspects.

I was mistaken.

Karen loved her father very much. As a bedtime singer, pancake maker, and softball coach, dad was her hero.

And me? I walked out without saying anything. The silence felt too high to scale when I allowed it to develop like a wall.

The following morning, as I bent to tie up my boots, I shook my voice and said to Brad, “I need to try again.”

As if they had forgotten how to knot the laces, my fingers fumbled with them. “I must confront Nigel.”

Brad remained silent for a while.

He was standing in the doorway, observing me with the calm, composed gaze he always gave me just before I did something challenging.

He was already reaching for his keys when he asked, “Do you want me to come with you?”

I glanced up at him. “Are you certain?” I squeezed his hand and asked.

I knew it would be difficult for him to enter my history in that manner. facing the man who once occupied the position he currently occupies.

He merely gave a nod.

“I’ll be right by your side.”

There was silence on the road. The sort of silence that hovers like a third passenger between two people.

The trees sped by, looking brittle and naked, and the tires hummed against the old country roads.

My heart was pounding steadily but heavily in my chest. As if it were warning me.

I paused as we drew into Nigel’s driveway and gazed at the porch. The front step was cracked, and the paint around the railings was peeling.

It was exactly as I remembered. I took a deep breath.

Brad reached over and squeezed my hand. Then he got out and rang the bell before I could talk myself out of it.

The door was opened by Nigel. He had changed appearance. older. Sadder.

His plaid shirt appeared to have been left unwashed for a few days, and his beard was left untrimmed. He narrowed his eyes as if he didn’t think I was there.

“Hi,” he said. His tone was gritty, akin to gravel in a can of tin.

“Hello,” I muttered. I had perspiration on my hands. My heart thumped more loudly.

We entered after he moved aside.

Time seemed to have stopped inside the house, which smelled of cedarwood and stale coffee. Each of us held our breath as we sat in the living room.

I tried not to cry as I said, “I came to ask about Karen.” “I’ve attempted to contact her… but she refuses to respond.

Nigel gave his neck a quick rub. She shifted. More than a year ago. To Canada. along with her lover.

I straightened my posture. “What?” My voice broke. “And you kept it from me?”

His eyes were fixed on the ground as he murmured, “You didn’t ask.”

“I made a call. I composed. Nothing!

He said, “She changed numbers.” “Your letters were not received by her.”

Everything swayed. I felt lightheaded and pushed my palm to my forehead. “I… I had no idea.”

Then Nigel abruptly sprang to his feet as though something had just come into his mind. “Oh! She left you something, and I nearly forgot.

He opened the top drawer and turned to face the ancient side table with the swaying leg by the couch.

Pens clinked and papers rustled. Then he produced an object and extended it in my direction.

It was a card, its edges velvety with age, and it was folded neatly yet wrinkled in the center. The envelope had curled up a little and yellowed.

Nigel handed it over and said, “Here.” She requested that I give it to you.

As I took it, my hands shook. My throat tightened at the mere touch. I cautiously opened the card, fearing it would shatter.

Happy Birthday, Mom was written in glittery, glittering lettering on the front. It was the sort of card a daughter carefully selects. The kind that has significance.

It read, “Happy 46th Birthday, Mom,” in the same handwriting I hadn’t seen in years.

Bewildered, I blinked.

I muttered in a tremulous voice, “I’m 47.” I turned to face Nigel. “You got this from her last year?”

He averted his gaze and rubbed his head. “I intended to… I overlooked it. I suppose I lost track of time.

“You overlooked it?” I got to my feet quickly. Like a saucepan boiling over, the rage boiled up. My chest ached.

“You kept this for a year? An entire year! While I cried during the night, believing that my daughter detested me?

He whispered softly as he took a step back, “I didn’t mean harm.”

I yelled, “I hate you for this.” I didn’t care that my voice trembled. “You didn’t let me see her.”

Brad got up and put a soft arm around my waist.

“Come on,” he said in a whisper.

I held the card tightly in my hands, as if it were made of something more than paper, yet I let him lead me to the door. As if it might somehow reunite her with me.

I opened it again in the car and read the entire thing aloud.

“I realize I’ve been aloof, Mom. I was initially upset that you had left Dad. I blamed you because I could see how hurt he was. But you didn’t stop calling.

You continued to write. And I began to think that perhaps I was unaware of the true circumstances. I’ve been under pressure from Dad not to speak to you.

I was conflicted. So I took off running. I apologize. Yes, I am. You are missed. I cherish you. This is my address. I hope you will come if you ever wish to. Mom, happy birthday.

Once more, tears streamed down my face. However, they weren’t motivated by pain this time. They originated from another source. Something vaguely reminiscent of hope.

The following morning arrived quickly. I only got an hour or two of sleep. I had more optimism than clothes in my luggage, which was sitting at the entrance.

I kept the birthday card close at hand, flush against my chest, while I made my way through the airport. As though a part of my heart had at last returned.

It was a silent flight. The majority of the time, I gazed out the window, watching the clouds pass by like gentle assurances.

I felt like I was being stitched back together with each mile we traveled across the sky.

I was on the pavement in front of a modest brick townhouse in Ontario by midday. My coat was pulled by the wind.

Wrinkled and mushy from being held too tightly, my fingertips gripped the note with her address. My breath came in short gasps as I gazed at the door.

I reached up to knock, but before I could get to it, the door opened.

She was there.

Karen.

She appeared older and more mature than when I had last seen her.

Her hair hung down below her shoulders, and her eyes, which were actually mine, scanned my face.

We remained silent for a while.

After that, she came forward and embraced me.

I let go of my purse and embraced her. Her hair had a honey and lavender scent.

I closed my eyes and allowed her arms to warm me through every tearful night, every sorrow, and every empty birthday.

Nothing to say. Simply love.

We were whole once more.

Share this story with your friends and let us know what you think. It could give them motivation and make their day.