My 47th birthday passed quietly, marked only by the faint glow of candles and the ache of an empty chair. For two long years, my daughter and I had lived in silence, separated by misunderstandings that grew heavier with each passing month. Still, out of stubborn hope or a mother’s instinct, I always set a place for her at the table. That evening, when the house finally settled into stillness, I made the same wish I’d whispered dozens of times before—that somehow, somewhere, Karen might find her way back to me. Fate had already answered. While tidying the kitchen, I...
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