I packed my suitcase carefully—warm clothes, old photos, and the card that had changed everything. The next morning, as the plane lifted off, I stared out the window and imagined what I would say when I saw her again. Would she recognize me? Would she still want to see me?
When I arrived in Canada, I found her address easily. My hands were trembling so badly I could barely ring the bell. Before I could even knock, the door opened.
The dam broke. We both began to cry, holding each other as if afraid to let go. All the years of hurt, misunderstanding, and silence melted away in that one embrace.
Rebuilding What Was Lost
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.
Karen smiled through her tears and said, “I thought you didn’t want to talk to me.”
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
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