I woke up to silence—no candles, no cards, no calls. I live above an old hardware store in a small room with a bed, a kettle, and a chair by the window. That window is my favorite. I watch buses go by. At the bakery, the girl didn’t recognize me, though I come every week. I told her it was my birthday. She smiled politely. I bought a small vanilla cake with strawberries and had them write “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on it.

Back home, I lit a candle, cut a slice, and waited. I don’t know for what. I haven’t heard from my son Eliot in five years—not since I told him his wife talked down to me. He hung up, and that was it. I snapped a photo of the cake, sent it to his old number. Just wrote: Happy birthday to me. No reply. Not then. Not later. I fell asleep by the window.
It was a young woman. Nervous, holding a phone. “Are you Mr. L?” she asked. “I’m Eliot’s daughter. Nora.” I was speechless.

She found my number on her dad’s phone, saw the message, and decided to come. She brought a turkey and mustard sandwich—my favorite. We sat at my crate-table and shared the cake. She asked about her dad’s childhood, my old garden, and why we stopped talking. I told her. Pride builds walls, I said. She understood.

Before she left, she asked if she could visit again. I told her she’d better. The room felt warmer. The next morning, a message from Eliot: Is she okay?

I replied: She’s wonderful.

A few days later, another knock. It was Eliot. He looked unsure. “I wasn’t sure you’d open the door,” he said. “Neither was I,” I replied. But I did. We didn’t fix everything. But we started something. If you’ve been holding back, maybe today’s the day to reach out. Sometimes, love returns when we least expect it—in a knock, a text, or someone new who remembers what matters.