Today is my 97th birthday.
I woke up in a quiet room—no cards, no phone calls, no candles.
I live in a small space above an old hardware store that’s been closed for years. The landlord charges me next to nothing, mostly out of gratitude—I helped him with a burst pipe last winter. My room is simple: a creaky bed, a kettle, and my favorite chair by the window. From there, I watch the buses pass by, one after the other, like time itself rolling on.
This morning, I took a walk to the bakery a couple of blocks away. The girl behind the counter greeted me with a polite smile—the kind that says she doesn’t recognize me, even though I go there every week for yesterday’s bread. I told her, “It’s my birthday today.” She smiled and said, “Oh, happy birthday,” as if it were a line she’d practiced.
I bought a small cake—vanilla with strawberries—and asked if they could write “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on top. It felt strange asking, but I did.
Back in my room, I placed the cake on the old crate I use as a table. I lit one candle, sat down, and waited.
I don’t know what I was waiting for.
My son, Eliot, hasn’t called in five years. The last time we spoke, I mentioned how his wife often spoke down to me. Maybe I shouldn’t have. He hung up the phone, and just like that—gone. No visits. No calls. I don’t even know where they live anymore.
I cut a piece of cake and took a bite. It was soft, sweet, and fresh.
Then I picked up my old flip phone, snapped a blurry photo of the cake, and sent it to the number still saved under “Eliot.” I wrote,
“Happy birthday to me.”
And then I stared at the screen, waiting for something… anything. Waiting for the dots.
But nothing came.
I sighed and looked back at the cake. The frosting stuck to my teeth as I chewed. Outside, buses kept passing by, like always. The world moved on, even when mine felt frozen.
Just as I was about to close the phone, it buzzed.
“Who is this?”
My heart thudded. Of course. Maybe a new number? Maybe he deleted me. My fingers trembled as I replied:
“Dad.”
Minutes passed. Then, finally, those three dots appeared.
“Dad? Is this really you? Where are you?”
My pulse pounded in my ears. Was it fear? Or hope?
“Same place. Above the hardware store.”
There was a long pause. Then:
“I thought you moved.”
I stared at the message. No, Eliot. I didn’t move.
You did.
“No. Still here.”
And then came something I didn’t expect.
“I’m in town. Can I come by?”
I froze. After all this time? After all the silence?
Part of me wanted to say no. But a deeper part—an older, softer part—just said:
Say yes.
So I wrote:
“Sure. Door’s open.”
Less than an hour later, I heard footsteps on the old stairs. Then, the door creaked open.
There he was.
Eliot. Older, bearded, heavier. Tired eyes. But still my son.
Beside him, a little girl peeked out from behind his leg. She looked about six.
“Dad,” Eliot said, his voice cracking. “This is Nora. Your granddaughter.”
My knees weakened. I held onto the back of my chair.
“Granddaughter?” I whispered.
Nora smiled shyly and handed me a wrinkled piece of paper. It was a drawing—me, Eliot, and Nora holding hands beneath a smiling sun.
Eliot’s voice lowered. “We didn’t know you were still here. After everything… I didn’t know how to reach out. And I—I didn’t handle things well.”
We didn’t speak of his wife. We didn’t need to.
“I shouldn’t have shut you out,” he continued. “I was angry. But it wasn’t your fault. And after Nora was born… I wanted to call. I just didn’t know how.”
I looked at Nora. Her eyes sparkled with innocent wonder.
“You’re here now,” I said softly.
Tears welled in Eliot’s eyes.
“Can we stay for a while? Celebrate with you?”
I gestured to the small cake.
“There’s plenty left.”
So we sat together, cutting crooked slices. Nora giggled as frosting coated her fingers. The room, once hollow, now hummed with life.
As the sun began to set beyond the buses, Eliot looked at me and asked,
“Dad… would you ever think about moving in with us? Nora would love having you around. And—I think I need my dad again.”
I looked at him, heart swelling. At 97, second chances are rare. But sometimes, they come quietly, wrapped in hope.
“Yeah,” I said, voice full. “I think I’d like that.”
Life has a way of circling back when we least expect it.
Cherish your loved ones. Don’t wait. If this story moved you, give it a like and share it. Maybe someone out there needs a gentle reminder to make that call.