Today, I turned 97.
The morning started quietly—no phone calls, no birthday cards, no visitors. Just me, sitting in my small room above a long-closed hardware store. It’s a modest space with a bed, a kettle, and a chair by the window where I often watch the buses go by. That window has become my connection to the world.
I decided to treat myself and walked a few blocks to the local bakery. The young woman behind the counter smiled politely. I told her, “It’s my birthday today.” She wished me well, cheerfully but distantly, like it was something she’d said a hundred times before. I bought a small vanilla cake topped with strawberries and asked them to write, “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on it. A simple indulgence.
Back home, I lit a single candle, set the cake down on the crate I use as a table, and sat quietly. I wasn’t expecting visitors. My son, Eliot, and I haven’t spoken in years. Our last conversation ended abruptly after a disagreement, and neither of us reached out since.
Still, I took a photo of the cake with my old flip phone and sent it to the number I had saved under his name. I added, “Happy birthday to me.”
For a while, there was nothing. Just the usual sounds of the street below.
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