My forty-seventh birthday should’ve been like any other, but that evening, as I laid the table, the silence in the house felt heavier than ever. I set out three plates, just as I always did. One seat remained empty — my daughter’s. For two long years, Karen hadn’t spoken to me. No calls, no letters, no explanations. Just a sudden, painful distance that I couldn’t cross. Brad, my husband, pretended not to notice, though I could see it in his eyes — that quiet concern he never voiced. Every year, he watched me put out that third plate, saw the...
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