On my 47th birthday, I set the table for three. One seat remained empty, as it had for the past two years—quietly waiting. My daughter, Karen, hadn’t spoken to me in all that time. Still, every year, I laid out her plate, a small act of hope I couldn’t let go of. Brad, my husband, noticed but said nothing. That night, as candles flickered and dinner cooled, I made a silent wish: to see my daughter again.
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