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 third plate, with the silverware tucked neatly beside it, sat in front of the empty chair.
