Today marks my 97th birthday. I woke up to an empty room—no cards, no phone calls, and no candles.
I live in a tiny room above a long-shuttered hardware store. The landlord doesn’t charge me much, mostly because I helped with his plumbing last winter. It’s a simple space, with just a rickety bed, a kettle, and my chair by the window. That window is my favorite—it gives me a view of the buses passing by.
I took a walk to the bakery a couple of blocks away. The young woman at the counter greeted me with a smile, like she didn’t know me, even though I come by weekly for stale bread. I told her, “It’s my birthday today,” and she replied, “Oh, happy birthday,” as if she were reading from a script.
I picked up a small cake—vanilla with strawberries. I even asked them to write “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on it. It felt a bit odd to ask, but I did.
Back in my room, I placed the cake on the crate I use as a table. I lit a single candle, sat down, and waited.
I’m not sure why I thought anyone would come. My son, Eliot, hasn’t called in five years. The last time we spoke, I mentioned how his wife always spoke to me condescendingly. Perhaps I shouldn’t have. He hung up, and that was the end of it. No calls, no visits. I don’t even know where he lives anymore.
I cut a piece for myself. The cake was good—sweet, soft, and fresh.
I snapped a photo with my old flip phone and sent it to the number still saved under “Eliot.” I wrote, “Happy birthday to me.”
Then I stared at the screen, waiting to see if the little dots would appear.
For a long time, nothing.
I sighed and turned my attention back to the cake. The sweet frosting clung to my teeth as I chewed slowly. Outside, the buses kept rolling by like they always did. Life just kept moving, even when mine felt like it had stalled.
I was about to shut my phone when, suddenly, it buzzed.
“Who is this?”
I blinked at the screen. Of course. New number, maybe? Or maybe he deleted me. I typed back with trembling fingers.
“Dad.”
A few minutes passed. Then the dots appeared.
“Dad? Is this really you? Where are you?”
My heart pounded harder than it had in years. I didn’t even know if it was excitement or fear.
“Same place. Above the hardware store.”
There was a long pause. Then another message popped up.
“I thought… I thought you moved.”
I stared at that message, feeling a lump in my throat. I didn’t move. He did. They moved, and they never looked back.
“No. Still here.”
Then came the unexpected.
“I’m in town. Can I come by?”
I stared. I honestly didn’t know what to type. Part of me wanted to say no. After all these years, after all the silence, what right did he have? But another part of me—stronger, softer—just whispered, Say yes.
“Sure. Door’s open.”
Less than an hour later, I heard footsteps on the old wooden stairs. My breath caught as the door creaked open. There he stood. Eliot. Older, heavier, with a beard and tired eyes, but still my boy.
Behind him, a little girl peeked out. She couldn’t have been more than six.
“Dad,” Eliot said, his voice cracking. “This is Nora. Your granddaughter.”
I felt my knees wobble. I gripped the back of my chair to steady myself. “Granddaughter?” I whispered.
Nora smiled shyly and handed me a small, crumpled piece of paper. It was a drawing—me, her, and Eliot holding hands under a sun with a big smiley face.
“We didn’t know if you were still here,” Eliot said, voice low. “After… everything. I didn’t know how to reach out. And I—I didn’t handle things well back then.”
Neither of us mentioned his wife. We didn’t need to. The air between us carried enough of the unsaid.
“I shouldn’t have pushed you away,” he added. “I was angry, but it wasn’t your fault. And when Nora was born, I wanted to call you so many times, but… I was ashamed.”
I looked at the little girl, her innocent eyes filled with curiosity. “You’re here now,” I said softly.
Eliot’s eyes welled up. “Can we stay for a while? Celebrate your birthday together?”
I gestured toward the tiny cake. “I’ve got plenty of cake left.”
We sat together around my little crate-table, slicing the cake into uneven pieces. Nora giggled as she licked the frosting off her fingers. The room, once so hollow, now buzzed with warmth.
As the evening sun dipped below the buses, Eliot asked, “Dad… would you ever consider moving in with us? Nora would love having you around. And—I think I need my dad again.”
I stared at him for a moment, heart full, eyes misty. At 97, you don’t get too many second chances. But here was one, staring me in the face.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “I think I’d like that.”
Sometimes life takes a long, winding road to bring you back where you belong.
Cherish your loved ones while there’s still time. If this story touched you, give it a like and share—it might just remind someone to make that call they’ve been putting off.
