When Nigel opened the door, older and worn, he told me Karen had moved to Canada over a year ago—with her boyfriend—and that he’d forgotten to tell me. Worse, he handed me a birthday card Karen had given him but never sent to me.
My hands trembled as I opened it. In her handwriting, Karen wrote about her anger and confusion after I left, how she blamed me and felt torn by Nigel’s pressure not to talk to me. She apologized, said she missed me and loved me, and even shared her new address, hoping I’d visit.
Tears streamed down my face—not of pain, but of hope. The next day, I flew to Canada, clutching that card like a lifeline. Standing before her door, heart pounding, I raised my hand to knock—only to have it open before I touched it.
There she was—older, changed, but still my daughter. For a long moment, we just looked at each other, then she stepped forward and hugged me tightly. In that embrace, the years of silence and pain melted away. Finally, we were together again.