Today marks my 97th birthday. I awoke to find no candles, no cards, no phone calls.
I reside in a small room situated above a hardware store that is no longer in business. The landlord charges me very little, primarily because I repaired his plumbing last winter. There isn’t much inside beyond a creaky bed, a kettle, and my chair positioned by the window. That window is my favorite—it allows me to observe the buses passing by.
I walked to the bakery two blocks away. The young woman behind the counter smiled as if she did not recognize me, even though I visit every week for day-old bread. I informed her, “Today is my birthday,” and she responded, “Oh, happy birthday,” as if reciting from a script.
I purchased a small cake. Vanilla with strawberries. I even requested that they inscribe “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on it. It felt foolish to ask, but I did.
Back in my room, I placed it on the crate I use as a table. I lit a single candle. I sat down, and waited.
I don’t know why I anticipated anyone would come. My son, Eliot, has not contacted me in five years. The last time we spoke, I made a comment about how his wife spoke condescendingly to me. Perhaps I should not have. He disconnected the call, 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, fresh.
I captured a photograph of it with my old flip phone. I sent it to the number I still had saved under “Eliot.” I simply wrote: Happy birthday to me.
Then I stared at the screen, waiting to see if those small dots would appear.
They did not.
I sat there for a while. I ate another slice. The frosting was slightly too sweet, but I appreciated that the strawberries were not frozen like the ones I obtain from the market. Then I looked at my phone again.
Still nothing.
I concluded that was the situation. Perhaps the number had changed. Perhaps he had blocked me. I would likely never know.
So I shuffled over to the window, settled into my chair, and watched a bus hiss to a halt across the street. A mother assisted her toddler up the steps. A young man in a suit held the door open for her. It became quiet again after that.
Approximately an hour later, I heard a knock. Three soft taps on the downstairs door.
No one knocks anymore.
I grabbed my cardigan and descended. My knees do not favor stairs much these days, but I reached the bottom. When I opened the front door, a teenage girl was standing there. Likely 14, perhaps 15. Curly hair, a red backpack, and apprehensive eyes.
“Are you Mr. L?” she inquired.
I nodded, perplexed.
“I’m Soraya. Um… I believe I’m your granddaughter.”
I truly believe my heart stopped.
She retrieved her phone, displaying the text message I had sent. Apparently, Eliot still possessed the number—but the phone was now hers. He had given her the old flip phone “in case of emergencies,” and she discovered my message while clearing out the saved inbox.
She stated, “I told my dad. He said not to reply. But… I wanted to meet you anyway.”
I was at a loss for words. I stood there like an imbecile, my mouth agape.
“I brought something,” she added, unzipping her backpack. She produced a card, handmade with blue marker and cut-out paper hearts. It read, Happy Birthday, Grandpa. I hope it’s not too late to meet you.
I simply broke down. Right there on the doorstep. Not a loud sob. Just tears, like a faucet you neglected to fully close.
I invited her inside. We sat on my rickety bed, sharing the remaining cake. She told me she enjoyed painting and that she had always wondered why she had never met her father’s side of the family. I recounted stories about Eliot when he was a child—how he used to put ketchup on scrambled eggs and wore mismatched socks every day in second grade.
Before she departed, she took a selfie of us on her phone. She said she intended to print it out for her wall.
“Can I return next weekend?” she asked, standing at the door. I nodded, still not quite trusting my voice.
When she walked away, I remained standing there for a long time, watching her red backpack bounce as she vanished around the corner.
That night, my phone chimed.
A new message. From an unfamiliar number.
It simply read: Thank you for being kind to her. —E.
I stared at that message for a long time as well.
Life does not always provide neat conclusions. Sometimes, it merely offers tiny openings.
And perhaps that is sufficient.
If this story resonated with you even a little, please share it. You never know who needs a reminder to reach out before it’s too late.
