There were no birthday cards in the mailbox. No phone calls either. Just another quiet morning in my small rented room above an old hardware store that’s been closed for years. The landlord doesn’t charge much—maybe because I fixed his plumbing last winter.

The room is simple. Just a bed, a kettle, and a window that looks out onto the street. I love that window. I sit by it and watch the buses go by. They remind me of time slowly passing.

This morning, I walked to the bakery nearby. The young woman at the counter smiled politely. She didn’t recognize me, even though I go there almost every week to buy cheap bread. I told her it was my birthday. She said, “Oh, happy birthday,” like someone says “bless you” when you sneeze—kind but not really personal.

I bought a small vanilla cake with strawberries on top. I asked them to write:

“Happy 90th, Mr. L.”

Saying it out loud felt a little silly, but I did it anyway.

Back in my room, I put the cake on an old wooden crate that I use as a table. I lit one candle. I sat down and waited.

I don’t know what I was waiting for.

My son, Eliot, hasn’t called in years. Our last talk ended badly. I said something wrong about his wife. He got upset and hung up. That was the last time we spoke. He never called again. I don’t even know where he lives now.

I cut a slice of cake. It tasted nice—soft and sweet.

Then I took a photo with my old flip phone and sent it to the number still saved under his name.

I wrote:
“Happy birthday to me.”

Then I stared at the screen…
waiting…