I turned 97 today. No candles, no calls. Just me, a small cake, and a quiet room above an old hardware store. At the bakery, I told the girl it was my birthday. She smiled politely. I had “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” written on a vanilla cake with strawberries.

Back home, I lit a candle, took a photo, and sent it to my son—Eliot. We haven’t spoken in five years, not since I told him his wife spoke down to me. He never replied.

Then, a knock. A young woman stood there, nervous. “Are you Mr. L? I’m Nora—Eliot’s daughter.”

She saw my message on her dad’s phone and came. She brought my favorite sandwich. We talked, shared cake, and she asked about the past. I told her—pride builds walls.

Before leaving, she asked if she could visit again. I said yes.

The next morning, Eliot texted: “Is she okay?”
I replied: “She’s wonderful.”

A few days later, he came too. We didn’t fix everything. But we opened the door.

Sometimes, love comes back quietly—through a message, a visit, or someone brave enough to knock.