Birthdays are supposed to be about laughter, candles, and celebration — a day to pause and be surrounded by love. But that year, when I turned forty-seven, the house felt unusually still. The kind of silence that doesn’t just fill a room — it lingers in the air, pressing against every memory. I stood in the kitchen as evening sunlight stretched through the curtains. The table was already set for three, just as it had been every night for the past two years.One plate for me. One for my husband, Brad.And one for Karen — my daughter. Her chair had...
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