Today marks my 97th birthday. I woke up to no candles, no cards, and no phone calls.

I live in a small room above an abandoned hardware store. There’s not much here except for a creaky bed, a kettle, and my chair by the window. That window’s my favorite part—it lets me watch the buses passing by.

I decided to walk to the bakery just two blocks away. I told the girl behind the counter, “Today’s my birthday,” and she said, “Oh, happy birthday,” like she was just reading it from a script.

I bought a small cake, vanilla with strawberries. I even had them write “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on it. I felt a little silly asking, but I did anyway.

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 expected anyone to show up. My son, Eliot, hasn’t called in five years. The last time we spoke, I had mentioned how his wife spoke down to me. He hung up, and that was the end of it.

I cut a slice for myself. The cake was good—sweet, soft, fresh. I took a photo with my old flip phone and sent it to the number saved under “Eliot,” writing only: Happy birthday to me.

Then I stared at the screen, waiting for those dots to appear. But they didn’t. I assumed that was it. Maybe he’d changed his number. Maybe he blocked me.

I shuffled over to the window, sat in my chair, and watched as a bus stopped across the street.  About an hour later, I heard a knock. Three gentle taps on the door downstairs.

When I opened the front door, I saw a teenage girl standing there. She looked around 14 or 15, with curly hair, a red backpack, and eyes filled with uncertainty.

“Are you Mr. L?” she asked.

I nodded, confused.

“I’m Soraya. Um… I think I’m your granddaughter.”

I swear my heart skipped a beat.

She pulled out her phone, showing me the text I had sent. Apparently, Eliot still had the number—but now, the phone was hers. He’d given it to her for emergencies, and she found my message while cleaning out the inbox.

She said, “I told my dad. He said not to reply. But… I wanted to meet you anyway.”

I didn’t know what to say. I just stood there, dumbfounded, with my mouth hanging open.

“I brought something,” she said, unzipping her backpack. She took out a handmade card, decorated with blue marker and paper hearts. It said, “Happy Birthday, Grandpa. I hope it’s not too late to meet you.”

I invited her in. She told me she loved painting and had always wondered why she never met her dad’s side of the family.  Before she left, she took a selfie of us with her phone.

“Can I come back next weekend?” she asked as she stood by the door.

I nodded, still struggling to find my voice. As she walked away, I stayed there, watching her red backpack bounce as she turned the corner.

That night, my phone dinged. A new message. From a number I didn’t recognize.

It simply said: “Thank you for being kind to her. —E.”

I stared at that message for a long time. Life doesn’t always offer perfect endings. Sometimes, it gives you small opportunities. And maybe that’s enough.

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