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On my 47th birthday, I set the table for three—one seat left heartbreakingly empty. Two years of silence from my daughter, Karen, had hardened into grief. But that night, a forgotten card in an old drawer shattered everything I thought I knew.
I laid the last plate down gently, my hands trembling just a little. There were three places set at the table—one more than we needed.
The same chair that hadn’t been used in two years. Still, I set it out every birthday. Like hope, it had become a habit I couldn’t let go of.
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