06/21/2025
I Bought Myself a Birthday Cake — But Nobody Showed Up
Today marks my 97th birthday. I woke up to silence—no candles, no cards, no phone calls. I live alone in a tiny, humble room above an old, closed hardware store. The rent’s cheap because I fixed the landlord’s plumbing last winter. My little space holds just a creaky bed, a kettle, and my favorite spot—a chair by the window where I watch the buses pass by.
Feeling lonely, I walked two blocks to the bakery. The girl behind the counter barely recognized me, even though I come weekly for day-old bread. When I told her it was my birthday, she offered a quick, rehearsed “Happy birthday.” I bought a small vanilla cake with strawberries and asked them to write “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on it. It felt strange asking, but I needed something real today.
Back in my room, I lit a single candle, placed the cake on my makeshift table, and sat quietly, waiting—though I knew no one would come. My son, Eliot, hasn’t called in five years. Our last conversation ended with hurtful words, and he never reached out again. I don’t even know where he lives now.
I cut a slice of cake. It was sweet, soft, and fresh—the little joy I could find today. I took a photo on my old flip phone and sent it to Eliot’s number saved in my contacts, simply writing: Happy birthday to me. Then I stared at the screen, hoping for those little typing dots to appear.
But they never did.