Today, I turned 97 years old. I woke up to silence—no candles, no birthday cards, no phone calls.
I live alone in a tiny room above an old, closed hardware store. My landlord barely charges me rent because I fixed his plumbing last winter. There’s not much here except a creaky bed, a kettle, and my favorite chair by the window. That window lets me watch the world go by—buses, people, life.
I walked two blocks to the bakery. The girl behind the counter barely recognized me, even though I come every week for day-old bread. When I told her, “It’s my birthday today,” she smiled politely, “Oh, happy birthday,” like she’d read it off a script.
I bought a small vanilla cake with fresh strawberries. I asked them to write: “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” It felt silly to ask, but I wanted something special.
Back home, I lit a single candle, sat by my crate-table, and waited.
I didn’t really expect anyone to come. My son, Eliot, hasn’t called in five years. The last time we spoke, I said something about how his wife didn’t like me. He hung up, and that was the last time. No calls, no visits. I don’t even know where he lives now.
I cut a slice of cake. It was sweet, soft, and fresh—better than I expected.
I took a photo with my old flip phone and sent it to the number saved under “Eliot.” Just one message: “Happy birthday to me.”
Then I waited, watching for those little typing dots to appear on the screen.
They never did.
I ate another slice. The frosting was too sweet, but the strawberries were real, not frozen like the market ones.
I stared at the phone. Nothing.
Maybe the number changed. Maybe he blocked me. I’ll probably never know.
I sat by the window again, watching a bus stop across the street. A mother lifted her toddler up the steps, and a young man held the door for her. Quiet again.
Then, an hour later, I heard a knock—three soft taps downstairs.
No one knocks anymore.
I pulled on my cardigan, slowly made my way down the stairs—my knees ache these days—and opened the door.
Standing there was a teenage girl. Maybe 14 or 15, curly hair, a red backpack, 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’d sent. Eliot still had the number—but the phone was now hers. He’d given her the flip phone “in case of emergencies,” and she found my message while cleaning.
“I told my dad, but he said not to reply. Still, I wanted to meet you.”
I didn’t know what to say. I just stood there, stunned.
She reached into her backpack, pulled out a handmade card covered in hearts: “Happy Birthday, Grandpa. I hope it’s not too late to meet you.”
I broke down right there on the doorstep—not loud sobs, just tears slowly falling.
I invited her in. We sat on my rickety bed and shared the rest of the cake.
She told me she loved painting and wondered why she never met her dad’s family. I told her about Eliot as a kid—his weird food habits, his mismatched socks.
Before she left, she took a selfie with me and said she’d put it on her wall.
“Can I come back next weekend?” she asked.
I nodded, still quiet, still amazed.
When she left, I stood by the door long after she was gone, watching her red backpack disappear around the corner.
That night, my phone dinged.
A new message from an unknown number.
“Thank you for being kind to her. —E.”
I stared at that message for a long time.
Life doesn’t always give you perfect endings. Sometimes it gives you small openings.
And maybe that’s enough.
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