The discovery of that hidden card shattered the story I’d been telling myself—that my daughter had chosen a life without me. Instead, every line in her handwriting reached across the lost years, apologizing, explaining, inviting. Anger at Nigel’s carelessness flared and faded; what mattered now was the address, the chance. The miles to Canada felt shorter than the distance in my chest.

Standing at her doorway, suitcase handle still in my hand, I saw the same eyes that once searched for me in crowds. Her hug came before any words, fierce and shaking, as if she, too, had been holding her breath for years. We cried for the birthdays missed, the calls not made, the stubborn pride on both sides. In that small hallway, we chose something different: to stop counting what was lost and start protecting what was suddenly, miraculously, found.