On my 47th birthday, I set the table for three, one seat left heartbreakingly empty, and two years of silence from my daughter, Elise, had hardened into grief. But that night, a forgotten card in an old drawer unraveled everything I thought I knew.
I placed the final plate gently, my hands just barely shaking—three seats at the table, one more than we needed.
The third plate sat in front of the same empty chair that had been untouched for two long years. I still set it out every birthday. It had become a ritual. Like hope, it stayed even when reason said it shouldn’t.