I woke up to silence—no candles flickering, no birthday cards waiting, no calls buzzing my phone. I live in a small, humble room above an old hardware store, with just a bed, a kettle, and a worn chair by the window. That window is my favorite spot. From there, I watch buses roll by, carrying lives I no longer touch.
At the bakery down the street, the young girl behind the counter didn’t recognize me, though I’ve been a regular for years. I told her it was my birthday. She smiled politely but without spark. I bought a small vanilla cake topped with fresh strawberries, and asked them to write, “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on it.
Back home, I lit a single candle, cut a slice, and waited. Waited for something—maybe a call, a knock, a sign. It’s been five years since I heard from my son Eliot. Since I told him his wife had spoken to me with disrespect. He hung up that day, and that was the end of us. I took a photo of the cake and sent it to his old number with a simple message: Happy birthday to me. No reply. Not then. Not ever.
I fell asleep by the window, the candle’s glow flickering softly.
Then came a knock.
A young woman, nervous and clutching a phone, stepped inside. “Are you Mr. L?” she asked. “I’m Nora. Eliot’s daughter.” Words caught in my throat. She’d found my number on her dad’s phone and saw my message. She had come.
Nora brought a turkey and mustard sandwich—my favorite. We sat at my crate-table and shared the cake. She asked about her father’s childhood, about my old garden, and why Eliot and I stopped talking. I told her about pride, and how it builds walls too tall to climb. She listened, really listened.
Before she left, she asked if she could visit again. I told her she’d better. The room felt warmer, alive.
The next morning, a message from Eliot popped up: Is she okay?
I replied: She’s wonderful.
Days later, another knock. It was Eliot, uncertain but here. “I wasn’t sure you’d open the door,” he said.
“Neither was I,” I answered. But I did. We didn’t fix everything that day. But we started.
Sometimes, love finds its way back when you least expect it—in a knock, a message, or a stranger who remembers what really matters.