I woke to silence—no calls, no gifts, no messages. My little room above the hardware store held only a bed, a kettle, and a chair by the window, where I watch buses pass.
At the bakery, the clerk didn’t recognize me, though I visit weekly. I told her it was my birthday; she smiled politely. I chose a small vanilla cake with strawberries and asked them to write, “Happy 97th, Mr. L.”
Back home, I lit a candle, cut a slice, and waited—though I wasn’t sure what for. My son, Eliot, hasn’t spoken to me in five years since I complained about his wife’s tone. I sent him a photo of the cake with “Happy birthday to me” —again, no reply.
I must’ve dozed at the window when a knock startled me. A young woman stood there, nervous, phone in hand. “Are you Mr. L? I’m Nora. Eliot’s daughter.” My heart leapt. She’d seen my message and come to meet me.
She brought my favorite sandwich, and we shared cake at my crate-table. She asked about Eliot’s childhood, my garden, and why he and I had drifted. “Pride builds walls,” I told her. She understood.
Before leaving, Nora asked to visit again. I said she’d better.
The next morning, Eliot texted: Is she okay? I replied: She’s wonderful.
A few days later, another knock. Eliot stood there, unsure. “I didn’t know if you’d open,” he admitted. “Neither did I,” I said. But I did. We didn’t fix everything, but it was a beginning.
If you’ve been waiting for a moment like this, it might be time to reach out. Love often arrives unexpectedly—in a knock, a message, or a new face who remembers what matters.