Every year before my birthday, I set the table for three—me, my husband, and our daughter Karen—but her seat always stayed empty. This year, turning 47, her absence weighed heavier than ever. Karen hadn’t spoken to me since I divorced her dad, Mark, blaming me for breaking up our family. She didn’t just withdraw—she vanished. I hadn’t heard her voice or seen her face in years despite countless calls, texts, and letters.
Fed up with the silence and desperate for answers, I drove to my ex’s house. The place was neglected, like a shell of its former self. My anxiety grew as I rang the doorbell. Mark answered, worn and hollow-eyed, but he let me in without a word. Inside was dusty, quiet, and empty—no sign of Karen.
Shaking with fear and hope, I asked where she was and if she was okay. Mark looked stricken, unable to meet my eyes. Then he whispered, “Your daughter is…”