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 a 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.
The phone didn’t buzz. No dots appeared. Just the silence of a room too quiet for a birthday.
I sighed and looked out the window. The buses kept going by, same as always. A little girl on the sidewalk pointed up at something, maybe a bird, maybe the way the clouds curled like ribbon today.
I sat there for a while. Maybe an hour. Maybe more.
Then… the phone lit up.
1 New Message.
From: Eliot
My hands trembled as I opened it.
“Dad? Is this really you? I… I wasn’t sure this number still worked. I’m so sorry.”
I stared at it. Read it over again. Then a second message came through.
“I think about you every birthday. Every time I pass a bakery. I didn’t know if you even wanted to hear from me again.”
I didn’t even realize I was crying until a tear dropped onto the screen.
I typed back, slowly, carefully:
“I never stopped wanting to hear from you. I bought a cake. Still have a slice waiting.”
There was a pause. Then:
“I’m coming. I don’t care how far. I’ll find you. Just don’t blow out that candle yet.”
I laughed. The candle had already burned down to a stub—but I lit another. A fresh one.
And I sat there, next to a half-eaten cake, waiting again.
But this time, I wasn’t waiting for nothing.
This time, someone was finally on their way home.
It was late afternoon when I heard footsteps on the stairs.
Not the usual ones—the landlord’s slow thuds or the delivery boy’s quick skip. These were hesitant… almost nervous. Each step paused like it wasn’t sure it should continue.
I stood up, heart pounding harder than it had in years.
Then came the knock.
I didn’t say anything at first. Just opened the door.
There he was.
Older than I remembered, of course. Thinner. Hair grayer. But the eyes—the eyes were the same. My son. My boy.
“Hi, Dad,” he said, almost a whisper. “It really is your birthday.”
I nodded, afraid to speak. Afraid I’d choke on whatever tried to come out.
“I, uh… I brought something,” he said, holding up a small paper bag. “Lemon shortbread cookies. I remembered they were Mom’s favorite. Figured they’d be yours too.”
I stepped aside. “Come in.”
He looked around the small room, his eyes landing on the candle, still burning on the cake.
“You kept it lit,” he said quietly.
“I said I would,” I replied.
He sat. I sat. For a moment, neither of us moved. Just silence—thick, but not heavy.
Then he reached into his coat and pulled out an old photograph. Worn, faded at the corners. It was the three of us—me, Eliot, and his mother—standing outside the hardware store. He couldn’t have been more than ten.
“I’ve had this in my wallet all these years,” he said, placing it on the table between us.
I looked at it for a long time.
“I’m sorry,” he added. “For the silence. For letting pride win. You didn’t deserve that.”
“No,” I said. “But I understand. Grief makes cowards of all of us. I wasn’t perfect either.”
We shared a long, quiet look.
Then he smiled—a real smile. Not forced, not polite. Just soft, like it belonged in this room.
“Can I have a slice?” he asked, pointing at the cake.
I laughed. “Of course. But the cookie’s mine.”
He laughed too, and for the first time in years, the room didn’t feel small. It felt full.
Of warmth. Of memory. Of forgiveness.
Of hope.
