I BOUGHT MYSELF A BIRTHDAY CAKE
A Quiet Birthday
On his 97th birthday, Mr. L woke up alone—“no candles, no cards, no phone calls.” Living above a closed hardware store, his days are quiet, his room sparse.
He bought himself a small cake: “Happy 97th, Mr. L,” it read. After lighting a candle, he sent a photo to his estranged son Eliot, writing: Happy birthday to me. No reply came.
An hour later, a knock. A teen girl stood there. “I’m Soraya. Um… I think I’m your granddaughter.” She’d found the message on a flip phone her father had given her. “I told my dad. He said not to reply. But… I wanted to meet you anyway.”
They shared the cake and stories. Before leaving, she asked, “Can I come back next weekend?” Later that night, his phone lit up with a message: Thank you for being kind to her. —E.
Sometimes, “tiny openings” are enough.
