I BOUGHT A CAKE FOR MY BIRTHDAY BUT NO ONE SHOWED UP
Today is my 97th birthday.
I woke up to an empty room. No calls. No cards. No candles.
I live in a small room above an old hardware store that shut down years ago. The landlord lets me stay cheap—mostly because I fixed his plumbing last winter. It’s nothing fancy: just a rickety bed, a kettle, and a chair by the window.
That window is my favorite. From there, I watch the buses pass by, pretending I’m headed somewhere too.
I’m not sure why I thought anyone would come. My son, Eliot, hasn’t called in five years. The last time we spoke, I said something about how his wife spoke to me like I was a burden. He hung up. That was the end of it. I never heard from him again.
Still, I bought myself a cake. Just a little one. Sweet. Soft. Fresh.
I cut a slice. Snapped a photo on my old flip phone. Sent it to the number still saved as “Eliot.”
“Happy birthday to me,” I typed.
Then I stared at the screen, waiting for the dots.
Nothing.
So I chewed, slowly. The frosting clung to my teeth. Outside, the buses rolled by, like they always do.
I was about to close the phone when—buzz.
“Who is this?”
My heart jumped.
I typed with trembling fingers.
“Dad.”
The dots appeared.
“Dad? Is this really you? Where are you?”
“Same place. Above the hardware store.”
Long pause.
“I thought you moved.”
“No. Still here.”
Another pause.
Then:
“I’m in town. Can I come by?”
I stared. After all these years? After all that silence?
Part of me wanted to say no.
But the softer part of me—the part that still hoped—just whispered, say yes.
“Sure. Door’s open.”
An hour later, I heard footsteps on the stairs.
The door creaked.
And there he was. Eliot. Older. Tired eyes. Beard. But still—my boy.
And behind him, a little girl peeked out.
“This is Nora,” he said. “Your granddaughter.”
I almost fell over.
She handed me a drawing—me, her, and Eliot under a smiling sun. My knees buckled. I held onto the chair to steady myself.
Eliot looked down. “I didn’t know how to reach out. I didn’t handle things well. I wanted to call, especially when Nora was born. But… I was ashamed.”
I nodded. “You’re here now.”
He looked at me, eyes misty. “Can we stay for a bit? Celebrate with you?”
I pointed to the cake. “Plenty left.”
We sat around my little crate-table, cutting uneven slices. Nora giggled as she licked frosting off her fingers. The room, once hollow, now hummed with warmth.
As the sun dipped low behind the buses, Eliot asked quietly:
“Dad… would you ever consider moving in with us? Nora would love having you around. And… I think I need my dad again.”
I paused. At 97, you don’t get too many second chances.
But here was one.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “I think I’d like that.”