No birthday cards in the mailbox. No phone calls. Just another quiet morning in the small room I rent above an old, long-shuttered hardware store. The landlord keeps the rent low—probably because I fixed his plumbing last winter. The room’s nothing fancy: a bed, a kettle, and a window overlooking the street. That window’s my favorite. I sit there and watch the buses roll by like time slowly slipping past.

I walked down the street to the bakery. The young woman at the counter gave me a polite smile, didn’t recognize me, though I stop in nearly every week for discounted bread. I mentioned it was my birthday. She said, “Oh, happy birthday,” in the same way people say “God bless” when someone sneezes.

I picked out a small vanilla cake topped with strawberries. Asked them to write:

“Happy 97th, Mr. L.”

Felt a little silly saying it out loud, but I went through with it.

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

I’m not sure what I was expecting.

My son, Eliot, hasn’t called in years. Our last conversation ended badly—me saying something I shouldn’t have about his wife. He hung up, and that was it. No more calls. No forwarding address. Just silence.

I cut a slice. It tasted good—light, sweet, fresh.

Then I took a picture with my old flip phone. Sent it to the number still saved under his name.

Typed: “Happy birthday to me.”

And then I stared at the screen, waiting… hoping those three little dots might show up.