Today marks my 97th birthday. I woke up to a quiet room, devoid of candles, cards, or phone calls.
I reside in a small room above a shuttered hardware store. My landlord keeps the rent low, mostly because I fixed his plumbing last winter. The room is sparse—just a creaky bed, a kettle, and my favorite chair by the window. That window is my little portal to the world, allowing me to watch the buses glide by.
This morning, I walked two blocks to the bakery. The girl behind the counter smiled at me, though it felt like she didn’t recognize me, even though I’ve been coming in weekly for day-old bread. I told her, “Today’s my birthday,” and she replied, “Oh, happy birthday,” with a rehearsed cheer, as if reading from a script.
I bought a small cake—vanilla with strawberries. I even asked them to write “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on it. It felt silly, but I did it anyway.
Back in my room, I placed the cake on a crate I use as a table. I lit a single candle, sat down, and waited.
I don’t know why I expected anyone to come. My son, Eliot, hasn’t called in five years. The last time we spoke, I mentioned how his wife spoke down to me. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything. He hung up, and that was the end of it. No calls, no visits. I don’t even know where he lives now.
I cut a slice of cake. It was good—sweet, soft, and fresh.
I snapped a photo with my old flip phone and sent it to the number saved under “Eliot.” I just wrote: Happy birthday to me.
Then I stared at the screen, waiting for those little dots to appear.
They didn’t.
I sat there for a while, eating another slice. The frosting was a touch too sweet, but I appreciated the fresh strawberries, unlike the frozen ones from the market. I glanced at my phone again.
Still nothing.
I figured that was it. Maybe the number had changed. Maybe he blocked me. I’d probably never know.
I shuffled over to the window, sat in my chair, and watched a bus hiss to a stop across the street. A mother helped her toddler up the steps, and a young man in a suit held the door for them. The world outside continued, and I felt the quiet settle around me like a heavy blanket.
About an hour later, I heard a knock—three soft taps on the door downstairs.
No one knocks anymore.
I grabbed my cardigan and made my way down. My knees aren’t fond of stairs these days, but I managed. When I opened the front door, a teenage girl stood there—probably 14 or 15, with curly hair, a red backpack, and nervous eyes.
“Are you Mr. L?” she asked.
I nodded, puzzled.
“I’m Soraya. Um… I think I’m your granddaughter.”
I swear my heart stopped.
She pulled out her phone, showing me the text I had sent. Apparently, Eliot still had the number—but it was now hers. He had given her the old flip phone “in case of emergencies,” and she found my message while cleaning out the saved inbox.
“I told my dad,” she continued, “but he said not to reply. But… I wanted to meet you anyway.”
I was at a loss for words, standing there like a fool with my mouth agape.
“I brought something,” she added, unzipping her backpack. She pulled out a handmade card, decorated with blue marker and cut-out paper hearts. It read, Happy Birthday, Grandpa. I hope it’s not too late to meet you.
In that moment, I broke. Right there on the doorstep, tears streamed down my face like a faucet left slightly open.
I invited her in. We sat on my rickety bed and shared the rest of the cake. She told me about her passion for painting and how she had always wondered why she never met her dad’s side of the family. I shared stories about Eliot when he was a child—his love for ketchup on scrambled eggs and the mismatched socks he wore every day in second grade.
Before she left, she took a selfie of us on her phone, saying she would print it out for her wall.
“Can I come back next weekend?” she asked, standing at the door.
I nodded, still unsure whether I could trust my voice.
As she walked away, I stayed at the door for a long time, watching her red backpack bounce as she disappeared around the corner.
Later that night, my phone dinged.
A new message. From an unfamiliar number.
It simply said: Thank you for being kind to her. —E.
I stared at that message for a long time, letting it sink in.
Life doesn’t always offer neat conclusions. Sometimes, it presents small openings that allow hope to seep in.
And maybe that’s enough.
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