Today, I turned 97.

No cards. No calls. Just silence in my tiny room above the old Miller’s Hardware. Every Thursday, I walk to the bakery. Same bag of day-old bread. Today, I told the girl it was my birthday. She said, “Oh. Happy birthday,” like it meant nothing. I bought myself a small cake with “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” written in icing. One candle. One wish I didn’t say out loud.

I texted Eliot—my son. Just three words: Happy birthday to me. We haven’t spoken in five years. His wife never liked me. I said so once. He didn’t forgive it.

Hours passed. Then—a knock.

A young woman stood there. “I’m Nora,” she said. “Eliot’s daughter.”

I nearly dropped. She found my number on his old phone. Brought a turkey sandwich—my favorite. We shared cake. Laughed. Cried. I told her the truth—not the bitter version, but the honest one. She listened.

The next day, Eliot texted: Is she okay?

I replied: She’s wonderful.

Days later, he knocked. We didn’t fix everything. We just… started.

If you’re waiting for a sign to reach out, maybe this is it.

It’s never too late to begin again.