Today I turned 97.
No cards. No calls. No candles.
I live in a small room above a shuttered hardware store. The landlord lets me stay cheap because I fixed his pipes last winter. It’s quiet—just me, my creaky bed, and a window where I watch the buses go by. That window’s my favorite part of the place.
I walked to the bakery like I do every week. The girl behind the counter barely looked up. I told her it was my birthday. She smiled politely—like she was reading it off a script. I bought a little vanilla cake with strawberries and asked them to write, “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” Felt silly. Did it anyway.
Back in my room, I lit a candle. Sat down. Waited.
I don’t know who I thought might come. My son, Eliot, hasn’t called in five years. Last time we talked, I made a comment about his wife. He hung up. That was it.
I took a photo of the cake with my old flip phone. Sent it to the number I had saved under “Eliot.” Just wrote: Happy birthday to me.
Then I waited. Watching for the little dots to pop up.
They didn’t.
I ate another slice. Sweet frosting. Good strawberries—not the frozen kind.
Still nothing.
I figured the number had changed. Or maybe I was blocked.
I went to the window and watched people come and go—families, buses, ordinary life.
Then, a soft knock on the door.
Three taps.
No one knocks anymore.
I shuffled downstairs. At the front door stood a teenage girl. Maybe 14. Nervous. Curly hair. Red backpack.
“Are you Mr. L?” she asked.
I nodded.
“I’m Soraya. I think… I’m your granddaughter.”
I nearly stopped breathing.
She showed me the message I’d sent. The flip phone had been passed down to her “for emergencies.” She found my text while cleaning it out.
“I told my dad,” she said. “He told me not to reply. But I wanted to meet you.”
She handed me a handmade birthday card. It read: Happy Birthday, Grandpa. I hope it’s not too late.
I broke down right there. Quiet tears.
We sat on my bed, shared the cake. She told me she liked to paint. I told her how her dad used to wear mismatched socks and drown his eggs in ketchup.
Before leaving, she snapped a selfie of us. Said she’d print it for her wall.
“Can I come back next weekend?” she asked.
I nodded, unable to speak.
When she left, I watched her red backpack disappear around the corner.
That night, a message arrived—from a number I didn’t know.
It read: Thank you for being kind to her. —E.
I stared at that message for a long time.
Life doesn’t always give us clean endings. Sometimes it just hands us a small opening.
And maybe that’s enough.
If this story touched your heart, share it. Someone out there might need a reminder to reach out—before it’s too late. ❤️
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