This morning, I turned 97. No candles. No cards. No calls.
I live in a small room above an old hardware store that’s been closed for years. The rent is low—mostly because I fixed the landlord’s plumbing last winter. It’s a simple space. Just a rickety bed, a kettle, and a chair I keep by the window. That window’s a bit of a lifeline—I like watching the buses come and go.
I walked down to the bakery a couple blocks away. The girl behind the counter smiled at me like I was a stranger, even though I stop by nearly every week for day-old bread. I said, “It’s my birthday today,” and she replied, “Oh, happy birthday,” like she was reading it off a teleprompter.
I picked out a small vanilla cake with strawberries. Asked them to write “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on top. I felt awkward saying it out loud—but I asked anyway.
Back in my room, I placed it on the crate I use as a table, lit one candle, and sat down.
I’m not sure why I waited, exactly. I knew no one was coming. My son, Eliot, hasn’t called in five years. The last time we talked, I mentioned how his wife tended to talk down to me. I probably shouldn’t have said it. He hung up, and that was the end of it. No more phone calls. No visits. I don’t even know where he lives now.
I cut myself a slice. The cake was fresh—soft, sweet. Comforting.
I snapped a photo with my old flip phone. Sent it to the number still saved under “Eliot.” I typed: Happy birthday to me.
And then I waited—watching for those little dots to appear.
They never did.
I sat there a while longer. Had another slice. The frosting was a touch too sweet, but the strawberries were fresh—not the icy ones I usually get from the market. I checked the phone again.
Still no reply.
I figured that was the end of it. Maybe the number had changed. Or maybe… he’d blocked me. I suppose I’ll never really know.
So I went over to my window and sat down. Watched a bus let off a sigh as it came to a stop across the street. A young mom helped her toddler up the steps. A man in a suit held the door for them. Then, silence again.
An hour or so later, there was a knock. Three soft taps at the door downstairs.
Nobody knocks anymore.
I pulled on my cardigan and made my way down—slowly. My knees aren’t what they used to be. But I got there.
When I opened the door, a teenage girl stood there. Maybe 14, 15. Curly hair. Red backpack. Eyes full of nerves.
“Are you Mr. L?” she asked.
I nodded, a bit stunned.
“I’m Soraya. Um… I think I’m your granddaughter.”
I swear, my heart nearly gave out.
She held out her phone and showed me the message I’d sent. Turns out Eliot still had the number—just not the phone. He’d passed it down to her “for emergencies.”
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