Today’s my 97th birthday. I woke up with no candles, no cards, no phone calls.
I live in a small room above a closed-down hardware store. The landlord doesn’t charge me much, mostly because I fixed his plumbing last winter. Not much in here besides a creaky bed, a kettle, and my chair by the window. That window’s my favorite—it lets me watch the buses go by.
I walked to the bakery two blocks down. The girl behind the counter smiled like she didn’t recognize me, even though I come in every week for day-old bread. I told her, “Today’s my birthday,” and she said, “Oh, happy birthday,” like she was reading it off a cue card.
I bought a small cake. Vanilla with strawberries. I even had them write “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on it. Felt silly asking for it, but I did.
Back in my room, I set it on the crate I use as a table. Lit a single candle. Sat down, and waited.
I don’t know why I expected anyone to come. My son, Eliot, hasn’t called in five years. Last time we spoke, I said something about how his wife talked down to me. Maybe I shouldn’t have. He hung up, and that was that. No calls, no visits. I don’t even know where he lives now.
I cut myself slice. The cake was good. Sweet, soft, fresh.
I took a photo of it with my old flip phone. Sent it to the number I still had saved under “Eliot.” Just wrote: Happy birthday to me.
Then I stared at the screen, waiting to see if those little dots would appear.
They didn’t.
I sat there for a while. Ate another slice. The frosting was a bit too sweet, but I liked how the strawberries weren’t frozen like the ones I get from the market. Then I looked at my phone again.
Still nothing.
I figured that was it. Maybe the number had changed. Maybe he blocked me. I’d probably never know.
So I shuffled over to the window, sat in my chair, and watched a bus hiss to a stop across the street. A mother helped her toddler up the steps. 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. Three soft taps on the door downstairs.
No one knocks anymore.
I grabbed my cardigan and made my way down. My knees don’t like stairs much these days, but I got there. When I opened the front door, there was a teenage girl standing there. Probably 14, maybe 15. 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, 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 “in case of 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 like a fool, my mouth open.
“I brought something,” she added, unzipping her backpack. She pulled out 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 just broke. Right there on the doorstep. Not a loud cry. Just tears, like a faucet you forgot to turn all the way off.
Before she left, she took a selfie of us on her phone. 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 not quite trusting my voice.
When she walked away, I stayed standing 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 unfamiliar number.
It just said: Thank you for being kind to her. —E.
I stared at that message for a long time too.
Life doesn’t always give you clean endings. Sometimes, it just gives you tiny openings.
And maybe that’s enough.
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