No candles. No cards. No calls.
Just me, sitting in my small apartment above an old hardware store. The window beside my chair has become my closest companion, offering the same view every day—buses groaning past, strangers drifting by, a world in motion while mine stands still.
This morning, I walked to the bakery. I told the girl behind the counter it was my birthday. She smiled politely.
I still bought the cake. Small, simple. I had them write Happy 97th, Mr. L in blue icing. I carried it home, lit a candle, and waited—though I wasn’t sure what for.
My son, Eliot, hasn’t spoken to me in five years. One careless comment about his wife—that’s all it took. I still had his number, so I sent a photo of the cake with a quiet caption: Happy birthday to me.
I stared at the screen, hoping.
Nothing came.
So I ate another slice. Watched the sun shift across the floor. The world carried on.
Until—
There was a knock at the door.
A teenage girl stood there. Curly hair. Nervous eyes. Red backpack slung over her shoulder.
“Are you Mr. L?” she asked. “I think… I’m your granddaughter.”
Her name was Soraya.
Turns out Eliot had given her his old phone. She found my message. He told her not to reply.
But she came anyway.
She handed me a card: Happy Birthday, Grandpa. I hope it’s not too late to meet you.
We sat. We shared cake. She told me about her love of painting. I told her about her father as a boy—how he once tried to build a treehouse out of cardboard and string. She laughed. It was his laugh.
Before leaving, she asked, “Can I come back next weekend?”
That night, my phone buzzed. A message from a number I didn’t recognize:
Thank you for being kind to her. —E.
I read it again. And again.
Life doesn’t always tie things up with neat little bows. But sometimes, it offers something else—a glimmer of warmth, a crack of light.
And for the first time in a long time, that little opening felt like hope.
