I BOUGHT MYSELF A BIRTHDAY CAKE BUT NO ONE CAME

Today, I turned 97.

No birthday cards in the mailbox. No phone calls. Just another quiet morning in the small room I rent above an old, long-shuttered hardware store. The landlord keeps the rent low—probably because I fixed his plumbing last winter. The room’s nothing fancy: a bed, a kettle, and a window overlooking the street. That window’s my favorite. I sit there and watch the buses roll by like time slowly slipping past.

I walked down the street to the bakery. The young woman at the counter gave me a polite smile, didn’t recognize me, though I stop in nearly every week for discounted bread. I mentioned it was my birthday. She said, “Oh, happy birthday,” in the same way people say “God bless” when someone sneezes.

I picked out a small vanilla cake topped with strawberries. Asked them to write:

“Happy 97th, Mr. L.”

Felt a little silly saying it out loud, but I went through with it.

Back in my room, I placed the cake on the old crate I use for a table. Lit a single candle. Sat down. Waited.

I’m not sure what I was expecting.

My son, Eliot, hasn’t called in years. Our last conversation ended badly—me saying something I shouldn’t have about his wife. He hung up, and that was it. No more calls. No forwarding address. Just silence.

I cut a slice. It tasted good—light, sweet, fresh.

Then I took a picture with my old flip phone. Sent it to the number still saved under his name.

Typed: “Happy birthday to me.”

And then I stared at the screen, waiting… hoping those three little dots might show up.  Continue below 

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I BOUGHT MYSELF A BIRTHDAY CAKE BUT NO ONE CAME

I woke up to quiet—no messages, no gifts, no phone calls. My home is a small room above an old hardware store, furnished with just a bed, a kettle, and a chair by the window.

That window is my favorite spot. I sit there and watch the buses go by.

At the bakery, the young woman behind the counter didn’t seem to recognize me, though I come in every week.

I told her it was my birthday. She gave me a polite smile.

For illustrative purpose only

I bought a small vanilla cake with strawberries and had them write, “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on it.

Back at home, I lit a candle, cut a slice of cake, and waited. For what, I wasn’t sure.

I haven’t heard from my son, Eliot, in five years—not since I told him I didn’t like the way his wife spoke to me.

He ended the call, and we never spoke again.

I took a photo of the cake and sent it to his old number, with a simple message: “Happy birthday to me.” No reply came—not that day, not any day.

For illustrative purpose only

I must have dozed off in the chair by the window.

Then came a knock.

A young woman stood there, a little nervous, holding her phone.

“Are you Mr. L?” she asked. “I’m Nora. Eliot’s daughter.” I was stunned.

She had found my number on her father’s phone, saw the photo I’d sent, and decided to come meet me.

She brought a turkey and mustard sandwich—my favorite.

We sat together at my little crate-table and shared the cake.

She asked about Eliot’s childhood, about my old garden, and why things had fallen apart between us. I told her. “Pride builds walls,” I said. She nodded. She got it.

Before she left, she asked if she could visit again.

I said she’d better.

The room felt warmer after she left.

The next morning, I received a message from Eliot: Is she okay?

I wrote back: She’s wonderful.

A few days later, another knock at the door—it was Eliot. He looked uncertain.

For illustrative purpose only

“I didn’t know if you’d open the door,” he said. “Neither did I,” I told him. But I opened it. We didn’t solve everything that day, but it was a beginning.

If you’ve been waiting, maybe now is the time to reach out.

Love has a way of showing up unexpectedly—sometimes in a knock, a message, or a new face who remembers what’s important.