On my 47th birthday, I set the table for three—one seat painfully empty. Two years of silence from my daughter, Poppy, had settled into quiet sorrow. But that evening, a long-forgotten card hidden in an old drawer would unravel everything I’d believed.
I placed the last plate down carefully, my hands unsteady. Three place settings—two occupied, one eerily vacant.
The untouched plate, cutlery arranged just so, faced the chair no one had sat in for two years. Still, I set it every birthday. Like faith, it had become a habit I couldn’t shake.
James stood by the sink, drying his hands on a tea towel so worn it might’ve been older than our marriage.
He caught sight of the extra place and murmured, “For Poppy?”
I nodded, eyes fixed on the table. Too pristine, too practiced.
The roast sat in the middle, wafting its comforting aroma. Mash dolloped perfectly, little wells of golden butter pooling like sunlight. And there—my birthday cake. Small, round, with candles shaped into a four and a seven, flickering bravely.
I didn’t even fancy cake these days.
James stepped over and lit the candles. The tiny flames danced, cheerful as if trying to lift my spirits.
“Go on,” he said softly, offering a weak smile.
But I spotted it—the way his gaze lingered, watching for fractures.
I shook my head, staring at the empty chair opposite me. It gaped back, cold and indifferent.
Poppy hadn’t occupied it in two endless years. No calls. No texts. No birthday cards.
As if she’d disappeared, and I wasn’t permitted to mourn her aloud.
I drew one of those deep breaths that starts in your gut and stings by the time it reaches your ribs. Then I grabbed my phone.
Her contact still read *My Little Poppet*. I’d never updated it.
I pressed *Call*.
The ringtone echoed like footsteps in an empty corridor.
Then silence.
“Still not ready,” I muttered to the air.
James stepped closer and pulled me into his arms. And I shattered. The tears came fast, scalding, as if they’d been queuing all day.
I blew out the candles in one go and wished for just one thing: to hug her again. Just once.
That night, after James had gone up and the house hushed, I perched on the edge of the bed. The springs groaned under me.
The bedside lamp cast a drowsy glow on the wall—like half-forgotten memories swaying in the shadows.
I reached under the bed and tugged out the old photo album. The one with tatty corners and a peeling daisy sticker on the cover.
I opened it gently, and the scent of aged paper enveloped me—musty, nostalgic, aching.
The first photo halted me. Poppy. Ten months old, custard smeared on her chin, her tiny fist clamped around my finger like I was her whole world.
“She was mine,” I whispered to the quiet. “Still is.”
But for two years, I’d been a ghost in her life. I’d tried everything—calls, notes, emails.
Nothing.
Maybe I’d earned it.
You might wonder what kind of mum loses her daughter’s trust. The truth? I never told Poppy why I left her father, Simon.
We’d been fraying long before I walked out. When I finally went, I said nothing.
I thought I was shielding her from the mess.
I was wrong.
Poppy idolised her dad. To her, he was a legend—Sunday league football coach, pancake flipper, lullaby crooner.
And me? I vanished without explanation. I let silence build like a brick wall between us.
A wall now too high to scale.
“I have to try again,” I told James the next morning, fumbling with my shoelaces.
He leaned in the doorway, watching me with that quiet steadiness he always had when I was gearing up for something difficult.
“Want me with you?” he asked, already grabbing his keys.
“You sure?” I whispered, squeezing his hand.
He nodded. “Right beside you.”
The drive to Simon’s was thick with silence, the kind that sits between two people like an uninvited guest. Tyres hummed against the frosty country lanes.
My heart thudded dully, as if sounding an alarm.
When we pulled up, I sat frozen. The porch looked unchanged—flaking paint, splintered step.
James squeezed my hand, then got out and rang the bell before I could chicken out.
Simon opened the door. He looked different—weathered, weary. His jumper was rumpled, his stubble patchy. He blinked as if I were a mirage.
“Alright?” he said.
“Hi,” I replied, barely a breath.
He stepped aside, waving us in. The house smelled of pine polish and yesterday’s tea.
We sat in the lounge, the air thick with history.
“I’m here about Poppy,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. “She won’t answer me. I’ve tried everything.”
Simon rubbed his neck. “She moved to Edinburgh… over a year ago. With her bloke.”
I stared. “What? You never said?”
“You never asked,” he muttered, studying the carpet.
“I called. I wrote. She never replied!”
“She changed her number,” he admitted. “Never got your letters.”
My entire body chilled. “I didn’t know.”
Then he stood suddenly, as if remembering. “Hang on—she left you something.”
He crossed to the sideboard, yanked open a drawer. Pens clattered, papers shuffled.
Then he handed me a card.
Neatly folded, corners softened with age. The envelope slightly curled, yellowed at the edges.
“Meant to give you this,” he said.
My hands trembled as I took it.
The front sparkled: *Happy Birthday, Mum!*
Inside, in Poppy’s familiar scrawl:
*Happy 46th Birthday, Mum…*
I frowned. “I’m 47. She gave you this *last* year?”
Simon scratched his head. “Meant to… slipped my mind. Time got away.”
“You *forgot*?” I stood, fury rising. “You had this for a *year*? While I cried myself to sleep, thinking my daughter despised me?”
“Didn’t mean to hurt you,” he mumbled.
“I loathe you for this,” I snapped. “You kept her from me.”
James stood, resting a hand on my shoulder.
“Come on,” he murmured.
I let him steer me out, the card clutched like treasure. Like it might bridge the gap.
In the car, I read it aloud.
*Mum, I know I’ve been distant… At first, I was furious you left Dad. I saw his pain and blamed you. But you kept calling. Writing. And I started wondering… maybe I never knew the full story. Dad’s been pushing me to cut ties. I felt stuck. So I ran. I’m sorry. Truly. I miss you. I love you. Here’s my address. If you ever want to visit… I hope you do. Happy Birthday, Mum.*
Tears rolled down my cheeks. But this time, they weren’t from grief.
They were from something else—hope.
I barely slept that night. By dawn, my suitcase was packed, brimming more with optimism than clothes.
At Heathrow, I pressed the card to my chest like a missing piece finally returned.
The flight was hushed. Outside the window, clouds drifted past like gentle vows. Each mile in the air felt like a seam stitching me back together.
By midday, I stood on a cobbled Edinburgh street, before a modest stone townhouse.
I gripped the note with her address—creased, worn, loved to bits.
I raised my hand to knock—but the door swung open first.
There she was.
Poppy.
She looked older—more woman than girl—but her eyes, those were still unmistakably mine.
We stood wordless for a heartbeat.
Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me.
I dropped my bag and held her tight. Her hair smelled of vanilla and rain.
I shut my eyes and let her warmth dissolve every lonely birthday, every sleepless night.
No words.
Just love.
We were whole again.
