Today, I turned 97. I woke up to a quiet morning—no birthday candles, no cards, no calls.
I live in a modest room above a now-shuttered hardware store. The landlord charges me little, mostly because I fixed his plumbing last winter. The room is basic, just a creaky bed, a kettle, and my favorite chair by the window, where I can watch the buses pass by.
I walked to the bakery two blocks down, where the young woman behind the counter greeted me with a smile, though I visit weekly for day-old bread. I told her, “It’s my birthday today,” and she offered an automatic, “Oh, happy birthday.”
I bought a small cake—vanilla with strawberries—and had them write “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on it. It felt a little strange, but I asked for it anyway.
Back in my room, I set the cake on a crate I use as a table, lit a single candle, and sat, waiting.
I’m not sure why I expected anyone to show up. My son, Eliot, hasn’t called in five years. The last time we spoke, I mentioned how his wife had spoken to me disrespectfully. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but 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 myself a slice. The cake was delicious—sweet, soft, and fresh.
I took a photo with my old flip phone and sent it to the number still saved under “Eliot,” writing simply: “Happy birthday to me.”
I stared at the screen, waiting for a reply.
But nothing came.
I ate another slice, noticing how the frosting was a little too sweet but how the strawberries tasted better than the frozen ones I buy from the market. I looked at my phone again.
Still nothing.
I figured that was it—maybe the number had changed or maybe he’d blocked me. I would never know.
I shuffled over to the window, sat in my chair, and watched a bus stop across the street. A mother helped her toddler up the steps, and a young man in a suit held the door for them. It was quiet again after that.
About an hour later, there was a knock. Three soft taps on the door downstairs.
No one knocks anymore.
I grabbed my cardigan and made my way downstairs, my knees aching with each step, but I reached the door. When I opened it, 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, confused.
“I’m Soraya,” she said. “I think I’m your granddaughter.”
My heart stopped.
She showed me the text I had sent. Apparently, Eliot still had the number, but the phone was now hers. He’d given her the old flip phone “for emergencies,” and while cleaning it out, she found my message.
“I told my dad,” she said, “but he said not to reply. But I wanted to meet you.”
I didn’t know what to say, just stood there, speechless.
“I brought something,” she said, opening her backpack. She pulled out a handmade card with blue marker and cut-out hearts. It read: Happy Birthday, Grandpa. I hope it’s not too late to meet you.
I just broke down right there, tears falling like a faucet you forgot to turn off.
I invited her in. We sat on my rickety bed, shared the rest of the cake. She told me she loved painting and had always wondered why she never met her dad’s side of the family. I told her stories about Eliot when he was a kid—how he liked putting ketchup on his scrambled eggs and wore mismatched socks every day in second grade.
Before she left, she took a selfie of us together. She said she was going to print it out and hang it on her wall.
“Can I come back next weekend?” she asked, standing at the door.
I nodded, still overwhelmed.
When she walked away, I stood there for a long time, watching her red backpack bounce as she disappeared around the corner.
That night, my phone dinged.
A new message. From an unknown number.
It simply said: Thank you for being kind to her. —E.
I stared at the message for a long time.
Life doesn’t always give you neat endings. Sometimes, it gives you small openings.
And maybe that’s enough.
If this story touched you even a little, share it. You never know who might need a reminder to reach out before it’s too late. ❤️