On my 47th birthday, I laid the table for three—one chair achingly vacant. Two years without a word from my daughter, Gemma, had turned grief into something solid and silent. But that evening, a lost birthday card buried in a cluttered drawer would unravel everything I believed.
I placed the last plate carefully, my hands unsteady. Three places—two occupied, one untouched.
The third setting, cutlery aligned just so, faced the empty seat that hadn’t known her weight in years. Still, I set it every birthday. Like a superstition, it was a habit I couldn’t abandon.
Oliver lingered by the sink, drying his hands on a threadbare tea towel, frayed from years of use.
He glanced at the spare place and murmured, “For Gemma?”
I nodded, eyes fixed on the table. It was all too precise.
The shepherd’s pie sat steaming in the middle, rich and fragrant. The roast potatoes glistened, butter pooling in their cracks like liquid amber. And there—my cake. Small, simple, with candles shaped like a four and a seven flickering weakly.
I hadn’t liked cake in years.
Oliver struck a match and lit them. The flames wavered, as if unsure of their own purpose.
“Go on,” he said softly, forcing a smile.
But I saw it—the way his gaze lingered, waiting for me to crumble.
I shook my head, staring at the empty chair. It looked back, hollow and accusing.
Gemma hadn’t sat there in two long years. No calls. No letters. Not even a whispered *happy birthday*.
It was as if she’d slipped into another world, and I wasn’t permitted to mourn her aloud.
I took one of those breaths that starts deep and ends in a shudder. Then I reached for my phone.
Her contact still read *My Little Lamb*. I’d never changed it.
I pressed *Call*.
The ringing echoed like footsteps in an empty church.
Then—nothing.
“Still not ready,” I whispered to the air.
Oliver stepped closer, wrapping his arms around me. And I shattered. The tears came fast, scalding, as if they’d been dammed up for centuries.
I blew out the candles in one go and wished for the only thing that mattered: to hold her just once more.
That night, long after Oliver had gone to bed, I perched on the edge of the mattress. The springs groaned beneath me.
The bedside lamp threw slanted shadows on the wall—ghosts of memories swaying in the half-light.
I reached under the bed and dragged out the old photo album, its edges frayed, a peeling Union Jack sticker clinging stubbornly to the cover.
I opened it slowly. The scent of yellowed paper and lost time wrapped around me—musty, comforting, sorrowful.
The first photo made my chest tighten. Gemma. Ten months old, custard smeared across her chin, her tiny fingers curled around mine like I was her anchor.
“She was mine,” I whispered to the silence. “Still is.”
But for two years, I’d been a spectre in her life. I’d tried everything—calls, emails, even standing outside her flat once, too afraid to knock.
Silence.
Perhaps I’d earned it.
You might ask what kind of mother loses her daughter’s love. The truth? I never told Gemma why I left her father, Alistair.
We’d been fraying long before I walked away. When I finally did, I said nothing.
I thought I was shielding her from the mess.
I was wrong.
Gemma worshipped her father. To her, he was a legend—football coach, Sunday fry-up king, the man who sang *Rule, Britannia* off-key at bedtime.
And me? I disappeared without explanation. I let silence build like a brick wall between us.
A wall too high to scale now.
“I have to try again,” I told Oliver the next morning, struggling to tie my laces with trembling fingers.
He leaned in the doorway, watching me with that quiet patience he reserved for my most desperate moments.
“Want me with you?” he asked, already reaching for his coat.
“You’d do that?” I breathed, gripping his hand.
He nodded. “Every step.”
The drive to Alistair’s was thick with silence, the kind that sits between two people like a third passenger. Tyres hummed against the winding country lanes.
My heart pounded, loud as a drum warning of danger.
When we pulled up, I froze. The porch was the same—chipping paint, a loose step.
Oliver squeezed my hand, then got out and rang the bell before I could change my mind.
Alistair answered. He looked older—weary, unshaven. His jumper was stretched at the collar, his eyes narrowing as if he couldn’t believe I was real.
“Alright?” he grunted.
“Hi,” I managed, voice brittle.
He stepped aside. The house smelled of stale tobacco and overcooked peas.
We sat in the front room, the air thick with every unspoken word.
“I’m here about Gemma,” I said, fighting to keep my tone steady. “She won’t answer me. I’ve tried everything.”
Alistair scrubbed a hand over his stubble. “She moved to Edinburgh… over a year back. With that boyfriend of hers.”
I blinked. “What? You never said.”
“You never asked,” he muttered, staring at the carpet.
“I called! I wrote! She never replied!”
“Changed her number,” he added. “Didn’t get your letters.”
My blood turned to ice. “You knew.”
Then he stood abruptly, like he’d remembered something. “Hang on—she left you this.”
He rummaged in a cluttered drawer, scattering receipts and loose change.
Then he handed me a card.
It was creased, the envelope softened at the edges.
“Meant to give you this ages ago,” he admitted.
My hands shook as I took it.
The front sparkled: *Happy Birthday, Mum!*
Inside, in Gemma’s looping script, it read:
*Happy 46th, Mum…*
I frowned. “I’m 47. This is from last year?”
Alistair scratched his neck, avoiding my gaze. “Meant to post it. Time got away.”
“You *forgot*?” I stood, fury rising like a tide. “You sat on this for a year? While I cried myself to sleep thinking she’d cut me out?”
“Didn’t mean to,” he mumbled.
“I *hate* you for this,” I hissed. “You stole her from me.”
Oliver stood, a steadying hand on my shoulder.
“Let’s go,” he murmured.
I let him guide me out, clutching the card like it was a lifeline. Like it could bridge the gulf between us.
In the car, I read it aloud.
*Mum, I know I’ve been cold… At first, I was furious you left Dad. I saw his pain and blamed you. But you kept reaching out. And I realised—maybe I never knew the truth. Dad’s been telling me not to speak to you. 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 fell, but this time, they weren’t from despair.
They were from something fragile—hope.
I barely slept. By sunrise, my suitcase was packed, more full of longing than belongings.
At the station, I pressed the card to my chest like it was a missing piece of me.
The train ride was hushed. Through the window, fields blurred past like smudged watercolours. Every mile felt like a stitch knitting me back together.
By afternoon, I stood on a cobbled Edinburgh street, before a tall townhouse with ivy crawling up its bricks.
I gripped the note with her address—dog-eared, softened from too much handling.
I raised my hand to knock—but the door swung open before I could.
There she was.
Gemma.
She looked older—wiser—but her eyes, those were still the ones I knew.
We stood frozen for a heartbeat.
Then she stepped forward and pulled me into her arms.
I dropped my bag and held her tight. Her hair smelled of rosemary and rain.
I shut my eyes and let her warmth dissolve every lonely birthday, every sleepless night.
No words.
Just this.
We were whole again.
