Today, I turned 97.

No cards in the mail. No phone ringing. Just another quiet morning in the little room I rent above an old hardware shop that’s been closed for years. The landlord lets me stay cheap since I fixed his busted pipes last winter. The place is simple—bed, kettle, one window looking out at the street. That window’s my favorite part. I sit there and watch buses pass like time itself.

I walked down the block to the bakery. The girl behind the counter smiled politely, not recognizing me, though I’m in there most weeks for day-old rolls. I told her it was my birthday. She said, “Oh, happy birthday,” with the same voice people use when they say “Bless you” to strangers.

I bought a little vanilla cake with strawberries. Asked them to write:

“Happy 97th, Mr. L.”

Felt a bit foolish asking, but I did it anyway.

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

I don’t know what I thought might happen.

My son, Eliot, hasn’t spoken to me in years. Last time we talked, I said something careless about his wife. He hung up, and that was the end of it. No birthday calls since. No address to send a card to. Just silence.

I ate a slice. It was good—light and sweet.

Then I took a picture of the cake with my old flip phone. Sent it to his number. Just wrote:

“Happy birthday to me.”

And then I waited. Just stared at the screen, hoping for three little dots.