I woke up to silence—no phone calls, no birthday cards, not even a candle flickering. Just another morning in my little apartment above the old hardware store. It’s a simple space: a bed, a kettle, and a chair by the window. That window’s my favorite spot. I like to sit and watch the buses go by.
I stopped by the bakery, like I do every week, but the girl behind the counter didn’t recognize me. I told her it was my birthday. She gave me a polite smile. I bought a small vanilla cake with strawberries and had them write: Happy 97th, Mr. L.
Back home, I lit a single candle, cut a slice, and sat quietly. Not sure what I was waiting for. I haven’t heard from my son Eliot in five years—not since I told him I felt his wife talked down to me. He hung up and that was the end of it.
I took a photo of the cake and sent it to his old number. Just wrote: Happy birthday to me.
No response. Not then. Not later. I fell asleep by the window.
Then came a knock.
A young woman stood there, a bit nervous, holding her phone.
“Are you Mr. L?” she asked. “I’m Nora. Eliot’s daughter.”
I couldn’t say a word.
She found my message on her dad’s phone and decided to come meet me. She brought a turkey and mustard sandwich—my favorite.
We sat at my crate-turned-table and shared the cake. She asked about her dad’s childhood, my old garden, and why we stopped talking. I told her the truth. I said pride builds walls. She nodded—she got it.
Before she left, she asked if she could come visit again.
I said, “You’d better.”
The room felt a little warmer after that.
The next morning, a text from Eliot: Is she okay?
I replied: She’s wonderful.
A few days later, another knock. It was Eliot. He looked unsure.
“I didn’t think you’d open the door,” he said.
“Neither did I,” I answered. But I did.
We didn’t fix everything that day. But we started something.
If you’ve been holding back, maybe today’s the day to reach out.
Sometimes love circles back when we least expect it—through a knock, a message, or a new face that remembers what truly matters.
