**Diary Entry – 7th April**
Today, of all days, I set the table for three. One seat—empty, as always. Two years of silence from my daughter, Poppy, had settled into a quiet, unshakable sorrow. But tonight, tucked away in an old drawer, I found a card I never knew existed. And just like that, everything changed.
I placed the last plate gently, my hands unsteady. Three places set—two occupied, one untouched. The third chair, the one Poppy hadn’t sat in for two years, remained as it always did on my birthday—waiting. Some habits are too painful to break.
James stood by the sink, drying his hands on a dish towel so worn it had seen more dinners than I could count. He glanced at the empty place and murmured, “For Poppy?”
I only nodded, my eyes fixed on the table. It looked perfect—too perfect. The shepherd’s pie sat piping hot at the centre, the roasted potatoes golden and crisp, butter pooling in the middle like tiny suns. And there, between us, my birthday cake—small, simple, candles shaped like a four and seven flickering softly.
I don’t even like cake anymore.
James lit the candles, their little flames dancing as if trying to coax a smile from me. “Go on,” he whispered.
But I couldn’t look away from that empty chair. No calls, no texts, no birthday wishes. As if she’d disappeared, and I wasn’t allowed to mourn her aloud.
I took a deep breath, one of those that starts in your gut and aches by the time it reaches your throat. Then I picked up my phone. Her contact still read *My Little Girl*. I hadn’t changed it.
I hit *Call*.
The ringtone echoed like footsteps in an empty hallway.
Then—nothing.
“She’s still not ready,” I whispered, more to myself than to James.
He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around me, and I shattered. The tears came hot and fast, as if they’d been waiting years to fall.
I blew out the candles with a single breath and wished, just once, to hold her again.
Later, when James had gone to bed and the house was silent, I sat on the edge of the mattress, the old springs groaning beneath me. The lamp cast a dim glow against the wall—like forgotten memories shifting in the dark.
Beneath the bed, I pulled out the old photo album, its cover frayed at the edges, a faded sticker of a daisy still clinging to the front. Opening it slowly, the scent of yellowed paper and time wrapped around me—musty, familiar, bittersweet.
The first photo made my breath catch. Poppy, at nine months old, her cheeks smeared with jam, her tiny fingers curled around mine like I was the only thing in the world she trusted.
“She was mine,” I whispered. “Still is.”
But for two years, I’d been a ghost to her. I’d tried everything—calls, letters, emails. Silence.
Maybe I deserved it.
You might ask what kind of mother loses her daughter’s trust. The truth? I never told Poppy why I left her father, Geoffrey.
We had been falling apart long before I walked away. When I finally did, I said nothing. I thought I was sparing her the ugly truth.
I was wrong.
To Poppy, Geoffrey was untouchable—football coach, pancake flipper, bedtime storyteller. And me? I vanished without a word, letting silence build a wall between us.
A wall too high to climb now.
“I need to try again,” I told James the next morning, lacing my boots with trembling fingers.
He stood in the doorway, watching me with that quiet patience he always had when I was about to do something hard.
“Want me to come?” he asked, already reaching for his keys.
I squeezed his hand. “You’re sure?”
He nodded. “Right beside you.”
The drive to Geoffrey’s was filled with the kind of quiet that sits heavy between two people. The tyres hummed against the damp country roads, my heartbeat echoing in my ears like a warning.
When we pulled into the driveway, I couldn’t move. The porch looked the same—peeling paint, a loose step.
James squeezed my hand, then got out and rang the bell before I could lose my nerve.
Geoffrey opened the door. He looked older, tired, his jumper rumpled, his stubble uneven. He squinted, as if surprised to see me.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hi,” I managed, my voice barely there.
He stepped aside, letting us in. The house smelled like old books and cold tea.
We sat in the living room, the air thick with unspoken history.
“I came about Poppy,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. “She won’t answer me. I’ve tried everything.”
Geoffrey rubbed his neck. “She moved to Edinburgh… over a year ago. With her boyfriend.”
I stared. “What? You didn’t tell me?”
“You never asked,” he muttered, staring at the floor.
“I *called*. I *wrote*. She never replied!”
“She changed her number,” he admitted. “Didn’t get your letters.”
A coldness spread through me. “I had no idea.”
Then he stood abruptly, as if remembering something. “Wait—she left you this.”
He crossed to a side table and pulled open a drawer. Pens clinked, papers shuffled.
Then he handed me a card.
It was folded neatly, the edges softened with time. The envelope was slightly yellowed at the creases.
“She wanted me to give you this,” he said.
My hands shook as I took it.
The front sparkled: *Happy Birthday, Mum!*
Inside, in Poppy’s familiar scrawl, it read:
*Happy 46th Birthday, Mum…*
I frowned. “I’m *47*,” I said, my voice unsteady. “She gave this to you last year?”
Geoffrey sighed, looking away. “Lost track of time. Meant to send it sooner.”
“You *forgot*?” I stood, fury rising. “You had this for a *year*? While I stayed up crying, thinking my daughter hated me?”
“Didn’t mean to hurt you,” he mumbled.
“I hate you for this,” I snapped. “You kept her from me.”
James stood, his hand warm on my back.
“Come on,” he murmured.
I let him guide me out, the card clutched tight—like it might bring her back to me.
In the car, I read it aloud.
*Mum, I know I’ve been distant… At first, I was angry you left Dad. I saw how he hurt, and I blamed you. But you kept calling. You kept writing. And I started to wonder… did I ever really know the truth? Dad pressured me not to speak to you. I felt trapped. So I ran. I’m sorry. I miss you. I love you. Here’s my address. If you ever want to visit… I hope you do. Happy Birthday, Mum.*
Tears spilled down my cheeks, but this time, they weren’t from grief.
They were something else—hope.
I barely slept that night. By dawn, my suitcase was packed, more full of hope than clothes.
At the airport, I clutched the card to my chest like it was my heart returned to me.
The flight was quiet. Outside the window, clouds drifted past like gentle promises. Every mile in the sky felt like a thread stitching me back together.
By afternoon, I stood on a quiet Edinburgh street, outside a terraced house painted a soft slate grey.
The note with her address—creased, worn—was clutched in my hand.
I raised my hand to knock, but before I could, the door opened.
There she was.
Poppy.
Older now—more grown—but her eyes, they were still mine.
We stood, silent, for one long moment.
Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me.
My bag dropped, and I pulled her close. Her hair smelled like rain and heather.
I closed my eyes, letting the warmth of her melt every lonely birthday, every sleepless night.
No words.
Just love.
We were whole again.
