Today I turned 97.
No candles.
No cards.
No phone calls.
I woke up alone, in the small room I rent above an old, shuttered hardware store. It’s nothing fancy—just a creaky bed, a kettle, and a chair by the window. But that window’s my favorite part. It lets me watch the buses pass by. Makes me feel like the world’s still moving, even if I’m not.
I took my usual walk to the bakery two blocks down. The girl behind the counter smiled politely, the way people do when they don’t quite remember your face. I go there every week for day-old bread. Today, I told her, “It’s my birthday.” She said, “Oh, happy birthday,” like she was reading it off a script.
Still, I bought a small cake—vanilla with strawberries—and had them write “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on top. I felt foolish asking, but I did it anyway.
Back in my room, I placed it gently on the crate I use as a table. Lit a single candle. Sat down. And waited.
I’m not sure what I was waiting for. Maybe a knock. Maybe a call. But none came.
My son, Eliot, hasn’t spoken to me in five years. We argued—the kind of argument you don’t come back from. I said something unkind about his wife. He hung up, and that was that. Silence ever since.
I cut a slice of the cake. It was soft. Sweet. Fresh.
I snapped a photo of it with my old flip phone and sent it to the only number I had saved under “Eliot.” I just wrote:
“Happy birthday to me.”
Then I waited.
No reply. Not a flicker. Not a dot. Not for a minute. Not for an hour.
Eventually, I dozed off in my chair by the window.
Then came the knock.
At first, I thought it was the wind or some noise from downstairs. But it came again—soft, but certain.
I opened the door, half-expecting the landlord. Or maybe that girl from the bakery.
Instead, it was a young woman. Early twenties. Nervous, holding a phone in both hands.
“Are you Mr. L?” she asked.
I nodded. “Yes?”
She took a breath. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m… Eliot’s daughter. Nora.”
I nearly dropped my cane.
She rushed to fill the silence. “My dad never talks about you. I only found your number because he still had it saved under ‘Dad.’ I saw your message and… I don’t know, I just felt like I had to come.”
She looked just like her mother, but those sharp eyes? Eliot’s. No doubt.
“Does he know you’re here?” I asked.
She shook her head. “He’d be furious. But I wanted to meet you. And—I brought something.”
A small paper bag. Inside: a turkey and mustard sandwich. My favorite. Something I hadn’t mentioned in years.
We sat at the crate-table and shared the rest of the cake. She asked about her father’s childhood, my old garden, and why things went quiet between us.
I told the truth. That I’d said things I shouldn’t have. That pride can build a wall so tall, you forget who you were trying to protect in the first place.
She nodded. “I understand.”
We laughed a bit. Teared up, too. She showed me photos—her little brother, her cat named Miso, her college apartment.
And something inside me, something heavy, finally let go.
Before she left, she asked if she could visit again.
I told her she’d better.
That night, the room didn’t feel so cold.
The next morning, my phone buzzed.
A message. From Eliot.
Just three words:
“Is she okay?”
I stared at it for a while. Then replied:
“She’s more than okay. She’s wonderful.”
A few days later, another knock.
It was Eliot.
He stood there awkwardly, hands jammed in his coat pockets.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d open the door,” he said.
“Neither was I,” I answered. “But… here we are.”
And we sat. Not to fix the past. But to start something new.
