Today is my 97th birthday. I woke up to a quiet room—no candles, no cards, no phone calls.
I live in a small room above a closed hardware store. The landlord charges me little, mostly because I fixed his plumbing last winter. There’s not much in the room: a creaky bed, a kettle, and my favorite chair by the window. That window lets me watch the buses pass by.
I walked to the bakery down the street. The girl behind the counter smiled at me, though I don’t think she recognized me, even though I come in every week for day-old bread. I told her, “Today’s my birthday,” and she gave a polite “Oh, happy birthday,” like she was reading it off a script.
I bought a small cake—vanilla with strawberries—and had them write “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on it. I felt silly asking, but I did it anyway.
Back in my room, I placed the cake on a crate I use as a table, lit a single candle, and sat down, waiting.
I don’t know why I thought anyone would come. My son, Eliot, hasn’t called in five years. The last time we spoke, I mentioned how his wife spoke down to me. Maybe I shouldn’t have. 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 good. Sweet, soft, and fresh.
I snapped a picture with my old flip phone, sent it to the number I still had under “Eliot,” and simply wrote, “Happy birthday to me.”
I waited, staring at the screen, hoping those little dots would appear.
They didn’t.
I ate another slice. The frosting was a bit too sweet, but the strawberries were fresh, not like the frozen ones from the market. I looked at my phone again.
Still nothing.
Maybe the number had changed. Maybe he blocked me. I’d 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 her. It was quiet again after that.
About an hour later, I heard a knock—a soft, three-tap knock on the door downstairs.
No one knocks anymore.
I grabbed my cardigan and made my way down. My knees don’t like stairs these days, but I got there. When I opened the 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, confused.
“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 the phone was now hers. He’d given her the old flip phone “for emergencies,” and she found my message while cleaning out the saved inbox.
She said, “I told my dad. He said not to reply. But… I wanted to meet you anyway.”
I didn’t know what to say. I stood there, mouth open, stunned.
“I brought something,” she said, unzipping her backpack. She pulled out a card, handmade with blue marker and paper hearts. It read, “Happy Birthday, Grandpa. I hope it’s not too late to meet you.”
And just like that, I broke. Not with a loud cry, but with tears—quiet tears, like a faucet that never quite turned 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 about Eliot when he was a kid—how he used to put ketchup on scrambled eggs and wore mismatched socks every day in second grade.
Before she left, she took a selfie of us on her phone. She said she was going to print it out for her wall.
“Can I come back next weekend?” she asked, standing at the door.
I nodded, still unable to trust my voice.
As she walked away, I stayed there, watching her red backpack bounce as she disappeared around the corner.
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 the message for a long time.
Life doesn’t always give you clear endings. Sometimes, it just gives you tiny openings.
And maybe that’s enough.
If this story touched you, share it. You never know who needs a reminder to reach out before it’s too late. ❤️
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